Remember the Toy Soldiers
by Thesilverlaurel
Summary: Near's first case as L, in a town in Yorkshire; A's hometown. But the main suspect's likeness to A isn't Near's main worry, as somehow, this killer know him, and knows about Wammy's house. And, to make matters worse for the poor albino, Matt and Mello's presence still floats around him, tearing him apart from the heart out.
1. Hall of Death

It has been seven years since Nate River has walked down this hallway. First when he was twelve, and in those seven years since, he should only have needed to worry about acne and girlfriends. But no, he is Near, he is the third L, he is the detective who defeated Kira.

Near, at the age of twelve, had known no loss, even though he was an orphan. But that changed when Angel died. Angel's death had shook Wammy's house to the core, and left his lover and three best friends lost and confused. Yes, Angel's death confused even Near, and left him to shrink into himself. Angel was the closest thing Near had ever had to a brother.

Two weeks after walking the hallway for the first time, Near was forced to walk there again, this time without Beyond by his side. Just Matt and Mello that time. And why? Because that time, he walked the hallway for Beyond.

This hallway was a hallway of death.

On the wall, words of remembrance had been written for each child, with a drawing and a photograph for each. Their bodies may be buried in whichever country they died in, but Roger had put a small piece of them in this hallway.

Near walks the hallway, alone this time.

At the end of the hallway, five boys have been put separately; Wammy's best.

First of all comes L himself, with a photograph of him with Light Yagami, the brunette killer handcuffed to the detective. Neither boy is smiling, or even looking at the camera; Light is glaring coldly at Lawliet, as the raven-haired insomniac crouches in his office chair, like always, in his white shirt and baggy jeans, like always, carefully balancing a spoon between his finger and his thumb, like always, shovelling a tiny cube of strawberry cake into his wide-open mouth, like always. The drawing shows him as a simple L, because to the rest of the world, that's all he ever was.

L

L Lawliet

He was childish, and hated losing,

But in the end,

He won.

Then comes Angel; the original successor. A punk boy from Yorkshire, he had an angular face, with auburn hair and pale blue eyes sparkling with a childish joy. He usually wore a blue shirt with black net sleeves, black jeans, brown leather boots, and a brown leather collar with matching cuffs for his wrists. His tongue hangs from his mouth in the photograph. Near recognises the scene. It was Christmas, and Beyond had begged Watari to let him take that photograph. His drawing shows him wrapping his long tongue around a lollipop, his eyes half closed with a smiling glee.

A

Almost

He couldn't escape death,

So he's an angel now;

Angel Birthday.

Beyond comes next. In his photograph, he looks exactly like Lawliet, but with red eyes instead of Lawliet's darks ones. And, also unlike Lawliet, he is stood straight, with two fingers in his mouth, jam dripping from his hand. His drawing is gothic; mostly black, with a grey face and blood red eyes. But to many, that was the dangerous Beyond Birthday.

B

Beyond Birthday

He had a hellish curse,

And without his angel, he lost his mind,

But now he's an angel too.

A gap. A gap for Near's memorial.

And here they are; Mello and Matt. Side by side, as ever, because even in death they will never be apart.

Mello's picture is one taken by one of his Mafia henchmen, showing Mello in his full leather glory, his scar still red and tender. He has chocolate in his hand, a gun in his crotch and a cruel sneer crossing his face, all the way from the femininely pointed chin, to the icy blue eyes beneath his blonde fringe. His drawing shows him as a child, the Wammy's Boy Near had known so well, with baggy black clothes and blonde bob, chocolate staining his teeth, apparently sitting on Beyond, who'd had a habit of calling Mello girly.

Mello

Miheal Keehl

He was filled with so much hatred,

But when he died,

He happily helped the boy he hated.

Matt's photo is a mug-shot. He stands in front of the lined wall, goggles pushed up into his red hair to show his emerald green eyes. The blackboard between his gloved hands holds the name Satoshi Tajiri, but this is fake; Matt is not the creator of Pokémon. The blackboard partly covers his tan body-warmer and striped shirt, his jeans and boots lost below the camera's view. In one corner of his mouth, an un-lit cigarette is clenched, causing him to sneer, and a smear of chocolate is failing to hide in the other corner. His drawing shows him with his goggles down over his eyes, his legs crossed, and a Game-boy clasped firmly between his hands, gloves and warmer discarded. A cigarette dangles from his lips, a thin trail of smoke twirling off into the air. The only colour the artist has used is red; his hair.

Matt

Mail Jeevas

He never wanted to be L.

He never wanted to be alone.

He got his wish.

Near backs away from the memorial, and leans against a small table. On that table stands a box Marlboro Smooth, a jar of strawberry jam, and a strawberry lollipop.

Near opens a window, lights a cigarette and balances it on the windowsill. Opening the jam, he takes the plastic from the lollipop and dips it into the jam.

Near opens a window, and lights Matt's vice, with a fragrance and flavour of Mello's vice. Opening Beyond's vice, he dips in Angel's vice, both flavoured like Lawliet's vice.

And so, sat on the windowsill, surrounded by his passed comrades' weaknesses, is a lonely boy in white pyjamas.

"Near?" a voice echoes down the hallway, "I've found a case you'll like…"

"I'm not in the mood for a case," Near says monotonously.

"In a town in Yorkshire, fifty miles from the sea…"

"Roger, I'm not in the mood."

"A teenage singer has been murdered, and her three friends are missing."

"Were the three friends also singers?"

"Yes."

"Jealousy crime."

"Her tongue was cut out and her cheeks cut open. She bled to death."

"Someone was jealous of her talent. So easy; even the police could work it out."

"I've already asked around. She had no major competition, and only two girls who were apparently her enemies. One called Valkyrie Bayton, but she was in an after-school detention during Holly- Holly Sange, the victim- Holly's time of death, so has a solid alibi. Ironically, she was in detention for punching Holly in the face."

"It was probably the other one."

"Yes, Laurel Silver. No alibi, but she's a well-behaved student with no reason to hurt Holly other than the fact that they didn't get along. And she certainly doesn't have a reason to hold the other three hostage."

"Ransom."

"Both parents with stable jobs, in a stable marriage. She herself is a journalist and a writer, working towards a scholarship into an Arts Academy. Fairly intelligent, gets relatively good grades, and according to her school reports, she 'has a select group of friends' and 'works better when it suits her, i.e. if she is to be rewarded'."

"Still sounds like a pretty simple case to me."

"You'll change your mind when you see this," Roger holds out a photograph.

"What is it?"

"The victim's chest."

"I'm not a pervert, Roger."

Near looks at the photograph anyway, and his jaw drops; a rare display of emotion. The victim has skin the colour of milky coffee, now with a visible tinge of blue. Judging from the blood that has dried around the puncture, a safety pin had been pressed through the skin over her collar bone while she was still alive. A piece of paper is attached to the pin, and is laid limply across her chest. On that paper, five words have been written in blue felt tip;

Near.

Remember the toy soldiers?

**ZOMG I'm an OC**

**The not-DN characters are GHS characters, which is a series I write for Figment. Just to clarify, they are based on my school friends, and a few invented characters thrown in for good measure.**

**This story was inspired by a YouTube video. Link (Remove the spaces);**

www. youtube watch? v=dgYnLnErzao&feature =related

**I intend to mix in both Martika and Eminem, so nobody get upset!**

**I had lots of fun thinking up these deaths. I think I'll write more murder stories *evil laugh***

**I don't own Death Note. Or the fore-mentioned YouTube video. I do own GHS though. But only the stories, not the actual school.**

**-Laurel Silver**


	2. Yorkshire lass

Holly Sange is not a pretty girl. In actual fact, she appears to be a bit of a tart. Her hair is red, with its natural brown growing back at the roots. Her eyes are brown, her lips are pouty, and her body slightly too thin to be healthy. Her clothes consist of a sleeveless blue shirt, just low enough to show her lacy black bra, shorts that appeared to be at least three sizes too small and red converse. Her face has been slathered in make-up, making her eyes and lips look huge, and the foundation has ran with the blood, then dried to a disgusting red-and brown gloop on her jaw line.

Roger turns a lip up in disgust. "I hate it when it's children," he says. "Dead children…" he shudders, then looks away from Holly's corpse, misery welling in the pale eyes behind his glasses. He runs a hand through his white hair, and puts on his hat. He pulls up the collar to his trench coat, and gives Near a nod.

Near sighs, pulling his leg up, resting his chin on his knee. "I have a weird feeling about this case, Roger. I don't like how the killer knows who I am, but I haven't even interviewed the prime suspect yet."

"I'm not liking it either," Roger says, "Sleepy Hollow. This is A's hometown."

"Really? I think we should get some lollipops; a little tribute to Angel."

Roger smile, and nods his agreement. Roger is among the few to have seen Near's nostalgic side. Angel is among the few the Near has ever had feelings for.

"And jam," Near continues. To anyone listening, his voice is as monotonous as usual, but a little quieter. Roger, the closest thing Near and the rest of the Wammy's boys have to a father, knows that this is how Near expresses sadness, "Angel was never without Beyond."

Roger leaves, without another word. _'Please' _he pray silently _'Let this case be over quickly. For Near's sake.'_

*line*

Two boys sit together. Anyone who doesn't know them would think that they're twins. Anyone who does know them can tell the difference between them, thanks to four features;

1. Their eyes; Lawliet has grey eyes, whereas Beyond's are red

2. Their shirt, the most obvious difference.

3. The way they sit; Lawliet is crouching, while Beyond sits with knees pulled up to his chest

4. Angel. Angel sits in his usual place by Beyond's side, like a puppy by his master. The collar around his neck, complete with a lead, would make some wonder if Angel was a dog that's somehow become human in the afterlife.

Quillish Wammy walks from boy to boy, handing him his favourite food. For Lawliet, a plate of strawberry shortcake, for Beyond, a jar of strawberry jam, and for Angel, a swirly lollipop.

Quillish departs from his three eldest wards, walking away from them toward two more boys. One with shoulder-length blonde hair, the other with a goggle-strap buried in his crimson mop. Matt and Mello dangle their legs over the edge of a cloud, gazing down at the Earth.

Idly taking their chocolate and Pocky, as Quillish will not allow cigarettes, Msquared continue to watch their cotton-ball as he stares at computer monitors, a frown crossing his usually stone face.

Roger stands behind him, and mentions Sleepy Hollow.

"Fucking idiot," Mello mutters, snapping a corner of chocolate away from its bar. "He's gonna be distracted now."

Angel looks over his shoulder at them. "Near don't let nowt' distract 'im. Not sommert' small as tha'."

Mello growls in the blue boy's direction, but the threat rolls off the Yorkshire escapist's back. Matt chews on his Pocky, the chocolate-coated biscuit dangling from the corner of his mouth like a cigarette would. "He's got a point though, Mels. Near wouldn't waste his time on something so trivial."

Mello rests his head on his Game-Boy's shoulder, and sighs, trying not to cry. "I miss him, Matty. We see him, we hear him, every day, but I miss him. It's not fair, Matt."

Matt rests a hand on Mello's head, just as Roger's words echo around them, as if someone has switched on a speaker. They're not distant; his words are so clear, it's as if he's standing with them; _"Please, let this case be over with quickly. For Near's sake."_

*line*

"Ta' Watari," a girl sits in front of the web cam, as Watari takes his place in the corner. She nods a brief 'hello' to Near, still sitting in the hotel, watching the girl on the centre screen, photographs of Holly surrounding her supposed killer.

Laurel Silver is not a good-looking girl. She's large, with thick arms and loose skin. Her messy auburn hair falls over her puffy face, failing to curtain the acne-marked skin. Her clothes are a little too large for her; a black shirt with a skull on the front, blue jeans with white paint up the left leg, and orienteering boots. Her eyes are blue, and pale, with a red scar on her left cheekbone, seemingly a chicken-pox scar.

"So, you're L, 'eh?" Yorkshire accent. Pale blue eyes. Messy brown hair. Sleepy Hollow. She becomes more like Angel as every second passes.

"Yes," Near speaks into a microphone. To Laurel, he sounds like a robot, thanks to his voice mask, but she can still detect his American accent.

"A Yankee?" she says aloud. "You from Michigan? I might be movin' there next year."

"No. My heritage is irrelevant."

"Yeah, yeah, sorry. Anyways, what's the Great L doin' in a little town like Sleepy Hollow?"

"Investigating a murder," that shut Laurel up. She has an unnaturally loud voice, "Of which you are the prime suspect."

"I'm… I think you're wrong, sir."

"It is early days. Do not be offended."

"I ain't murdered nobody. I won't never 'urt a fly, me!"

"It is apparently common knowledge that yourself and Holly Sange had your differences."

"Holly?" Laurel laughs. "What's tha' la-la-dopey cow done naw'?"

"Died."

"Wha…? Is tha' why I'm, like, top suspect? 'Cause we never gor' on?"

"You are apparently the only person with any motive."

"I won't call personali'y clash a mo'ive."

"Excuse me?"

"Personali'y clash. We ain't never done nowt' to each other; we just didn't ger' on."

"Can you think of anyone who would have a reason to hurt her and her friends?"

"No… wait, **and** her friends?"

"Yes. The girls named Talisa, Bibiana and Tarragon are missing."

"Jesus tap-dancing Christ," Laurel mutters. "That's just… fuck…"

"Yes. We hope to find them before they're killed."

"Yeah, yeah… sorry, sir, I can't think o' no one. She only 'ad issues wi' Valky and me."

"Miss Baynton? Why did she banter with Miss Sange?"

"Same as me. Just didn't ger' on. Me and Valky used to be proper close, but we had this figh', and we're mates now, but we ain't never gon' be as close as we was."

"Then I'm afraid you're still our top suspect, unless you can give me an alibi."

"I was at 'ome. Writin'."

"Is there anyone who can support this."

"No. My parents were workin', and the siblings were out."

"Well, thank you for your time. You seem to have taken the news well."

Laurel nods. "I've always been level-headed, Mr L, sir."

Near doesn't look away from his computers as Roger enters, peeling off the coat and hat. "I think she's the killer. There doesn't seem to be any other likely killer."

"But there's no evidence."

"That's my problem. But I have come to the conclusion the Laurel has an inferiority complex."

"Similar to Mello?"

Near flinches at the name. "A little. It would seem that, unlike Mello, who used his anger to fuel his aspirations, Laurel seems to accept the fact that she is not the best. She calls her friends by their names, like 'Valky', whereas she calls L 'sir'."

"That could just be a sign of respect. It's a traditional Yorkshire manner, showing respect. She seems to have other manners like that; I suppose you could almost call her gentlemanly."

"You could be right, but something about her just doesn't sit right with me. Do you have the items from the crime scene."

"Yes," Roger produces a CD case and a silvery crown.

Near examines the crown first. Made from wire, covered in silver ribbon, then laurel leaves sprayed with grey paint have been sewn to the silky fabric. Roger takes the CD from its case, and puts it into one of the computer towers. Taking a deep breath, he waits for the button to appear on one of the computer screens, and presses play.

"Please…" a girl's voice begs. A hissing noise, like the static of a disconnected TV, then her voice continues; "Will you at least let them go?"

"Talisa, Bibiana and Tarragon," Near mumble. He jumps as a gunshot explodes from the speakers.

"Oh, God!" Holly screams, "Oh, God! Bib… Bibiana…. Is she… Oh, God, she's dead!"

More static.

"Okay, okay," Holly wails. She chokes a little, then starts to sing shakily; "Step by step, heart to heart, left right left, we all fall down, like toy soldiers. Is that good enough for you?" she shrieks.

A second gunshot.

Holly's crying can be heard, whimpering as she continues to sing, "Bit by bit, torn apart, we'll never win, but the battle wages on, for toy soldiers."

Silence. Static. A third gunshot.

Holly screams, and a clattering noise can be heard; the recording device is being moved. The screaming gets quieter.

Holly begs, whimpering helplessly. Her words become incoherent, her screams of fear and misery become those of pain. Then, after ten minutes of listening wordlessly to her horrific anguish, Holly falls silent. Near and Roger bow their head, tears streaming down Roger's face.

A new voice- still female, but definitely not Holly's; it is much deeper- sings in a purposely patronising childish style; "Won't you come out and play with me?"

**More murders to come. More information on Holly's death. Talisa, Bibiana and Tarragon's bodies to be found. MattXNearXMello angst. I have big plans.**

**My accent usually isn't quite as thick as I've written it, but my accent's messed up, and it changes. If you don't understand what Laurel and/or Angel say, try reading it aloud.**

**Who do you think the murderer is? Me? Valkyrie Baynton? Another character that I haven't mentioned yet? *Gasp* Drama!**

**I don't own Death Note, or Pocky, or Martika and her song 'Toy Soldiers'**

**-Laurel Silver.**


	3. Hung, quartered and kidnapped

"A fifth child," Roger collapses against the desk, trying not to cry. "A fifth body… are you sure it's the Laurel Crown murderer? Yes… that doesn't sound right… the crown was definitely there? Okay… Why didn't you tell us that before?!"

Roger weaves his way through a maze that Near has built from Lego, and finds the albino in the centre, building a replica of the Eiffel Tower from lollipop sticks.

"Another murder. Found with the trademark crown," Roger holds up a remote, and the pictures on the monitor change. Near doesn't even look up from his tower.

"Let me guess… Teenage girl, heavy make-up and 'trendy' clothes, probably some sort of musician? Cheeks and tongue slashed at with a scalpel, and then shot between the eyes? Left with a CD and laurel crown?"

"Nope," Roger presses another button on the remote, and a song begins to play. Holly's singing can be heard, but has been edited; the crying removed, and music put behind it. The music is different to the original track, so Near assumes that it is a cover played by the 'Berries', as girls had called themselves, and the verses are apparently sung by Talisa, Bibiana and Tarragon.

The song plays, then after the second verse, a boy can be heard, rapping, "I'm supposed to be the soldier, who never blows his composure, even though I hold the whole weight of G-Maff on my shoulders, I am never supposed to show it, my Maff ain't supposed to know it, even if it means going toe to toe with a murderer, it don't matter. I never drag them into battles that I can't handle unless I absolutely have to, I'm supposed to set an example, I need to be the leader, the crew looks to me to guide 'em, if some shit ever just pop off, I'm supposed to be beside 'em."

"So the recent victim is a boy," Near muses.

"Freckles Should," Roger hands over a file, still warm from the printer.

"That's a strange name."

"Says Nate River."

"It's more normal then Freckles Should. Who in their right mind names their child 'Freckles'?"

"Anyway, he was a Gifted and Talented Mathematics student at the same school as the four girls, but that's all he has in common with them. Different lessons to the girls, but his and Laurel Silver's timetables are an almost complete match. Not a member of the Berries, but was the leader of a local gang who calls them 'G-Maff'."

"He mentioned them in his verse. Which is strange, as none of the other lyrics have been altered."

"Yes. No witnesses from within the gang."

"Was the actual murder any different?"

"Very. Hung and quartered…"

"I believe the method is 'hung, **drawn,** and quartered'."

"Nope, not in this case. He was hung, then his arms and legs cut off, then sewn back together before being smothered."

"He survived the whole procedure?"

"Yes. Bruises were found on his thighs and upper arms, presumed to be from cords…"

"Stop blood loss, and to numb the pain, so he wouldn't pass out. He was awake throughout the torment."

Roger swallows hard. "Perhaps. There's the usual laurel crown, the CD," he points to the speaker in the corner, "And, another link to the other murders."

"Don't tell me Laurel Crown is a wanna-be make-up artist?"

"No," Roger can't help but smirk at Near's rare sarcasm. "His tongue was cut out and sewn back in, with a second tongue added to his mouth."

"Any more missing children?"

"No."

"Then whose tongue is it?" Near asks aloud. "Could it be Laurel Crown's?"

"The police think it was Holly's…"

"Holly's?"

"Apparently Holly's tongue was missing from her mouth…"

"Why didn't you tell me that before?!"

"I only just found out. The poor Sergeant nearly had a heart attack when I roared at him. No pun intended."

Near rolls his eyes. "DNA tests on the tongue show…?"

"No tests run yet."

Near sighs, and places one last papery stick on his tower. "Shouldn't you be going?"

Roger nods, and weaves his way back out of the maze, grabbing his Watari disguise.

*line*

Valkyrie Baynton is very different from her friend Laurel. She is thin, skeletal, with skin so pale it's practically white, and hair so dark it's practically black, but neither her skin nor her hair is quite that colour, yet her angular, bony face, thin lips and piercingly blue eyes still give her a vampiric impression. Her clothes are plain; white trainers, blue jeans, black New York Yankees coat and a pinstripe Trilby hat perched on her ringed hair.

"Good afternoon, Miss Baynton."

Valkyrie snorts. "It's Valkyrie."

"Valkyrie," Near says bluntly. "Do you know anyone by the name of 'Freckles Should'?"

"Freckles Should shut up!" Valkyrie laughs, her smirk showing unnaturally sharp canines hidden in her sharp mouth. "Yeah, I sat across from him in Psychology. Annoying fucker, he was. Wouldn't shut his trap."

"Talkative?"

"No. He'd sing, he'd rap, he'd beat-box. Never any good at any of them. To be fair to him, his beat-boxing wasn't bad, but he always boxed the same beat."

"Then I suppose you'll be glad to know that you no longer sit next to him."

"I….what?"

"Freckles Should is dead."

Valkyrie's face somehow becomes even paler. "…Dead?"

"Yes. And you are a suspect."

Valkyrie simply stares into the eye of the camera, question slipping around her mouth, then pouring back down her throat.

"Are you alright, Miss Baynton?" Near asks innocently. He doesn't like the way Valkyrie had talked about Freckles in the past tense; she already knew he was dead.

"It's Valkyrie," she growls, before covering her mouth with spidery finger and cursing under her breath.

"You seem to have a problem with your name **Valkyrie**," Near says, twirling his hair, almost the same colour as his and Valkyrie's skins, between his fingers, and smirks, "I think you killed him, and Holly, and Talisa, Bibiana and Tarragon."

"Wha…" Valkyrie is lost for words, her eyes wide as if she's seen a ghost, "I was in detention when Holly died…"

"How do you know?" Near asks. "Her time-of-death was never published. How do you know you were in detention when she died?"

"I…" Valkyrie hyperventilates, trembling. "I…I…I don't know how I know… I don't… I didn't kill them…"

"Did they have nick-names for you, Valkyrie?" Near asks. "Nasty ones? Like 'Vampiress', 'Sugar', Mop-head', 'Curley'…"

"Who told you those?" Valkyrie screams. "Only… only… Stephanie…"

"Stephanie Sweet?" Near asks. "Would you like to tell me how she fits? I know that you and Laurel have worked together, I am 74% sure of this fact, but I wasn't aware that Miss Sweet had an impact."

"She doesn't!" Valkyrie screams, tears streaming down her face, "I don't! I didn't kill anybody!"

"You already knew about Freckles' death."

"What? No, no, I didn't!"

"You talked about him in the past tense."

"I… I did?"

"Yes, Miss Baynton. You slipped up."

A phone rang. Near flips the mobile open, and dangles it by his ear by his thumb and index finger. "Hello?"

"H-h-hello? L? It's Stephanie…"

"Excuse me," he leans towards his microphone. "For now, Valkyrie Baynton, you are free to go, but you will be called in again to continue this interrogation, so don't try to run away, or your percentage will increase. Oh, and please don't kill anyone." He presses a button, and Valkyrie's image vanishes. "Miss Sweet?"

"I know who the killer is," she sobs. "I saw her… grab Freckles, and she… she cut his tongue out…"

"I've read the report, Miss Sweet. Please tell me who the killer is," Near says bluntly.

"It was…" the phone clatter, and Near's eyes widen as Stephanie's screaming can be heard over the receiver.

A new voice comes onto the phone, and sings in a patronising voice, a voice Near knows but can barely remember; "Won't you come out and play with me?"

**Near's current knowledge/thoughts on crimes;**

**Holly, Talisa, Bibiana, Tarragon and Freckles = dead**

**Stephanie = witness**

**Laurel and Valkyrie = murderers that he's calling 'Laurel Crown'**

**Murders are all something to do with tongues; is Laurel Crown trying to shut everyone up? Is she saying they have bad taste, so don't deserve tongues?**

**Stephanie is probably going to die.**

**I need another chapter on the Wammy's boys. I need more angst!**

**-Laurel Silver**


	4. Our Sweet Candy-girl

To the Left;  
One for Holly,  
One for Talisa, Bibiana, Tarragon,  
One for Freckles,  
One for Lloyd

To the Right;  
One for Fred,  
One for L,  
One for Adaven,  
One for Kadet

And to the back,  
A killer blow,  
One for me

A Silver Crown  
On our Sweet Candy-girl's head  
Cherry blood  
Sugar-white skin  
It's turning blueberry now

Twelve knives;  
Six to the left  
Where her heart had truly laid,  
Five to the right  
For each she'd lied to,  
One to the back  
To put her out of her misery

A body with twelve knives  
Stabbed into the backstabber's back  
And that's all that's left of our Sweet Candy-girl

Step by step, heart to heart, left right left  
We all fall down like Toy Soldiers  
Bit by bit, torn apart, we'll never win  
But the battle wages on for Toy soldiers

Children's toys, Kira's cult, poor young Nate  
He killed God with his Toy Soldiers  
Crown of leaves, bloody back, a broken song  
Our Sweet Candy-girl and Toy Soldiers

Won't you come out and play with me?  
'Till we lie down with our Toy Soldiers  
And that's all that's left of our Sweet Candy-girl

**I know it's a short chapter, but they've all been really long.**

**Stephanie's death will be explained in the next chapter**

**I don't own Death Note, Eminem or Martika.**

**Just a spoiler; count the 'One for's in the 'To the Right' verse, then think about which two names are missing. Our murderer's a clever girl, isn't she? Just another spoiler; there's only one murderer, not a team/pair.**

**-Laurel Silver**


	5. A poet and she knows it

"If you're a poet and you know it, clap your hands," Near sings quietly into his microphone.

Valkyrie eyes the camera, and slowly raises her skeletal hands, clapping twice.

"If you're a poet and you know it, clap your hands." Two more slow claps.

"If you're a poet and you know it, and you really wanna show it, if you're a killer and you know it, clap your hands."

Valkyrie cocks an eyebrow at the camera, a dry smile splitting across her face.

"I was hoping you'd fall for it," Near sighs. "It would make my job much easier."

"I'm not going to plead guilty for a crime I never committed."

"No, that would be a pointless thing to do," Near sits on the floor before his monitors, one leg folded around him, the other propped up with his chin on his knee. He folds sheets of paper into Venus flytraps, and plays with his contraption as he talks to his suspect; "Miss Baynton, I'm going to read you a poem that I think you'll have heard of. Feel free to join in reciting, if and when you recognise it."

Valkyrie doesn't even bother growling her own name, just glares at Near from the computer screen as he reads to her.

"To the left; one for Holly, one for Talisa, Bibiana, Tarragon, one for Freckles, one for Lloyd. To the right; One for Fred, one for L, one for Adaven, one for Kadet. And to the back, a killer blows, one for me. A Silver Crown on our Sweet Candy-girl's head, cherry blood, sugar-white skin, it's turning blueberry now…"

"Twelve knives; six to the left where her heart had truly laid," Valkyrie interrupts, practically leaping from her chair in shock.

"Where did you read this poem, Miss Baynton?"

"I wrote it."

*line*

Lloyd blinks, his head groggy. He moves to pull an arm over his eyes, but it takes a few seconds to realise that he can't move them. Nor can he feel his hands.

He screams aloud as his current reality hits him; he's tied to a chair, in an empty, unfamiliar room, with a standing-by camera staring him in the face and a familiar girl flashing him a metallic grin from across the room.

*line*

"What is it about, Miss Baynton?" Near asks, a smirk forming.

"I…I don't know," Valkyrie says. She leans forward, elbows on the table before her, head in her hands, and she shakes her head in dismay. "I don't even remember writing it."

"So how do you know you wrote it?"

"It was in my handwriting."

"The copy I received was typed."

"I… there's only one… I never showed it to anyone… I don't think…"

"When did you first discover this poem?"

"Yesterday," the same day Near's copy arrived, "Laurel came over, we sang along with some Skillet and Les Miserablès, discussed our psychology homework, slagged a few teachers off, giggled at the dream catcher on the windowsill, and then I blacked out. When I woke up, my mum had sent Laurel home after Laurel had shouted her."

"Have you been to the hospital?"

"No. It was just an epilepsy fit."

"Ah, yes, you're epileptic, aren't you? This can develop into other brain disorders, most typically memory loss."

"Yep," Valkyrie nods, "I have fits quite often, but never anything serious."

"What sets off your fits? Blinking lights?"

"They usually just… happen… naturally… but a good smack to the head does it. I'm sensitive to light as well, and I have glasses that are supposed to help, but they don't do anything."

"Interesting. Anyway, back to the task on hand. Who is 'Our Sweet Candy-girl?"

"Stephanie… I guess."

"Would you care to explain?"

"Well… her surname was Sweet," again with the past tense, "And, she was always eating sweets. Always." Just like L did, "Laurel used to call her Gobstopper."

"Are you and Laurel close? She seems to be linked to this case."

"We used to be, then we had a fight a couple of years ago, some stupid misunderstanding, and we never fully got over it. We've been getting close again though."

"What about Stephanie?"

"I got on with her well. Laurel was always a little cautious around her, especially when Stephanie started going to this performance-club-thing that Holly and the Berries went to."

"Yes?"

"Yeah… she reckoned Stephanie was a bad apple or some sh- something. Said that Stephanie was saying thing to Holly about us. They were still friends though."

"Does Laurel often have odd opinions like this?"

"Not really… I mean, she was a little weird around Emma-Leigh…"

"Who?"

"My sister. She died a couple of years ago. Teen suicide."

"I'm sorry. I know how it feels to lose your sibling to their own misery."

Valkyrie forces a watery smile, blinking back tears. "Laurel and Emma-Leigh were never close friends, but they weren't enemies. They both said that the other was weird, and neither liked how childish the other one was," Valkyrie chokes up a laugh, "They should have got along just fine. Just… personality clash, I guess."

"Similar to Laurel's relationship with Holly?"

"No… they weren't enemies. They got along, for my sake."

"Interesting. Did you mention her in your poem?"

"Emma-Leigh? No… the poem's about something recent."

"But you're not sure what?" No answer. Near sighs, and heads back to his initial objective. "When did you last see Stephanie Sweet?"

"The other day."

"Before or after you wrote the poem?"

"Before."

"Have you made any contact with her?"

"No… she's dead, isn't she?"

"Yes."

"I'm afraid so."

Valkyrie's face flushes red, tears stream down her face and drip off her chin like a waterfall, and she curls into herself, wiping her rosy cheeks with the sleeve of her jacket. "I-I'm sorry… she… she was my best friend… I haven't cried since… Emma-Leigh… Stephanie… oh, God!" she screams, gripping her head. "They're dead… dead… the laurel tree… the laurel tree… she's hanging from the laurel tree… somebody help her!"

Her head snaps up, and even though she's little more than an image on a screen to the white detective, he can feel those wide, frightened eyes staring straight into the little boy he's buried deep within himself.

**Lots of angst in the next chapter, I promise**

**I don't own Death Note**

**-Laurel Silver**


	6. She's hanging from the Laurel tree

"She's hanging from the laurel tree…" Valkyrie whispers, her wiry legs clenching against her straight torso as she rocks back and forth, trembling, her hands knotting into her hair, her hat forgotten on the floor. "She's hanging from the laurel tree… someone get her down… help her, Laurel, help her! She's hanging from the laurel tree…"

_"My sister. She died a couple of years ago. Teen suicide."_

_"I'm sorry. I know how it feels to lose your sibling to their own misery."_

Not just to their own misery; Near knows how it feels to lose your siblings, to be the only one left.

The stress had been too much for Angel. He spent one last day with Beyond, kissed Msquared and Near goodnight, wrote an apology and a goodbye on a piece of paper, and opened his veins. He died just as Beyond walked in to say goodnight.

Beyond's sanity had never been fully stable. He was born a freak; he had the eyes of a Death God. He would often gaze above people's heads, and snigger at their names, or the shortness of their remaining lifespans. At the age of five, he killed his parents because their lifespans were about to run out. Angel was Beyond's best friend, and his un-foreseen suicide made something snap within the murderous boy. He killed three Los Angeles citizens in two weeks. He was among the first to be judged by Kira, and then he joined Angel.

Quillish Wammy was killed by a Death God, which died soon after killing him.

Lawliet died in Kira's arms. Kira had smirked when Lawliet's eyes closed, thinking his enemy was finally dead.

Matt and Mello died in an attempt to kidnap an accomplice of Kira's. Matt was shot by her bodyguards, and she killed Mello with a hidden slip of the Death Note, before setting the church they were in alight, killing herself in the process, as choreographed by Kira.

In the end, though he didn't do it alone, Near was the one who beat Kira. He explained it to the remaining police force, this magical book that killed anyone whose name was written in it.

"She's hanging from the laurel tree…" his veins are open.

"She's hanging from the laurel tree…" he's a five-time murderer.

"She's hanging from the laurel tree…" a kindly old man, a father to the Wammy's orphans.

"She's hanging from the laurel tree…" the world's greatest detective.

"She's hanging from the laurel tree…" the gamer pumped full of lead.

"She's hanging from the laurel tree…" he burned. Twice.

Yes, Nate 'Near' River is alone.

*line*

A teenage girl sits alone, waiting. She is small, with soft brown hair, in a pink shirt and jeans. Her face is hidden, fuzzy, like a fading memory.

A short distance away, a gaggle stands, waiting. One girl with her cheeks cut open and her tongue missing; Holly Sange. Three girls with wounded cheeks and tongues, and a bullet hole between their eyes; Talisa, Bibiana and Tarragon. A boy with his arms roughly sewn back on, and a second tongue added to his mouth; Freckles Should. A boyish young girl, with short hair and braces, and twelve deep wounds in her back- six to the left, five to the right, one to the spine- a Sweet Candy-girl; Stephanie Sweet. A tall boy, with a scar above his left eye, and his jaw is a bloody, mangled mess. His name is Lloyd Grey.

They haven't noticed the faceless girl. The only one who would have any memory of her is Stephanie. But the faceless girl doesn't mind. It's not Stephanie she's waiting for.

**A/N**

**Short chapter, I know. **

**Next chapter; lots of angst, and perhaps some supernatural activities.**

**More murders and another interrogation of Laurel Silver to come. And more poetry.**

**-Laurel Silver**


	7. Near's old toys

Near's nineteen now; he's too old for toys. But when they offer visual representations, they are incredibly useful. And finger puppets offer the best visual representation.

Most of the puppets from the Kira case have been destroyed. All but three- well; five- were stacked into a pile and set alight.

Those five saved puppets; one in blue clothes and a collar, one with red eyes, one with messy hair and a comically pouty mouth, a miniature Hamburglar and a blonde puppet with a scar running down the left of his body. These puppets had been ceremoniously sealed in an old shoebox, but now Near gingerly slides them over his fingertips; L on his thumb, then A, B, Matt, Mello, because not even in his worst nightmares can Near imagine A without B or Matt without Mello.

In the shoebox with the puppets, there had been a one-eared rabbit and a small teddy-bear. When Mello had first left Wammy's, Near had chewed the poor rabbit's ear off, worrying about his dear friend. The ear had hung from his mouth, white fluff falling to the floor, as tears had streamed down the then-fourteen-year-old's face.

Near takes up the rabbit, and its detached ear, and hugs them close to his body. It has a vague smell of smoke. Near nibbles on the ear, like he had when he was a child, and squeezes the limbless toy, his eyes filling with tears that refuse to fall. The ear tastes like strawberries and sugar, and is strangely sticky.

But of all the old toys, it's the teddy-bear that breaks Near's heart. The rabbit and it's limb fall to the floor, more white fluff escaping, as Near grabs the bear and clutches it to his chest. It smells like chocolate.

When Mello left, the only things he'd left were a couple of video games he'd stolen from Matt, and this teddy-bear. Near had claimed the stuffed toy, but never played with it; it was an inspiration, a reminder of what Near was, and probably always will be, to the rest of the Wammy's boys. Near was the youngest, the smallest, the baby. The others, Angel especially, had made it their duty to look after him, like his adopted older brothers.

Angel childised Near, but Near had never minded. Angel was brought up by a paedophile, and just wanted to show someone the compassion he'd craved. Beyond was the fun brother, who'd set up intricate pranks, with Angel as his beta, on Roger. Matt would teach Near to play video games, and they'd sit up for hours on multi-player. Mello was the brother who hated him, but still loved him deep down.

Mello and Near's relationship was an odd one. Near beat Mello constantly; more intelligent, more patient, more mature, and Mello hated Near for it. He'd throw tantrums, aimed at Near, throwing his toys, pouring paint over his white clothes, even hitting the young boy. But, every night, Mello would sneak over to Near's room, begging forgiveness, and every morning, Roger would find Mello fast asleep in Near's arms, with Matt curled up on the end of Near's bed, and Angel and Beyond would be somewhere within the vicinity. The quintet were the only family each other had had, but they were forever competing to be L. That's what killed Angel, that's what caused Beyond to snap, that's why Mello left, and Matt had followed, and that's why Near's the only one still here.

*line*

The faceless girl doesn't stir as a boy storms past her. The boy, with shoulder-length blonde hair, icy-blue eyes and who is clad fully in leather, strides up to the shining gates, and straight out.

A red-head and a pale man in a white shirt shout at him to stop, to come back.

Mello turns, snarling. Matt freezes, and even Lawliet pauses. Mello growls in challenge, and they both back away.

A fourth joins the situation; a blue punk, with brown leather boots, and a collar with matching cuffs. His face is angular, his stance in calm and confident, his eyes are a piercing blue.

"Mels, you're on'y gonna 'urt 'im," Angel says, raising his hand in an attempt to calm his banal brother.

"He is hurting!" Mello screams.

"Jus' wait, Mello. He'll come eventually. Wait."

"I don't want to wait! He needs someone there, now."

"Roger…"

"Is taking that Baynton kid to the hospital!" Mello interrupts. "Near's alone."

"Except he isn't," Beyond appears behind Angel, "he's got us."

"We're dead, B!"

"He's got a horde of angels," Beyond carries on, "no… more like a family of angels, watching him. He'll never be alone, because we're still with him."

"I don't give a fuck about your namby-pamby nostalgic shit!" Mello shouts, storming off, none of his brothers even bothering to follow him. Mello is stubborn, and won't change his mind easily.

The faceless girl watches him march to the edge of the clouds, and jump.

*line*

Near squeezes and coddles the bear, basking in its chocolaty scent.

Something cold brushes his cheek. Near looks up to a shadow looming over him, stroking his face lovingly, kneeling down to his level.

The shadow is significantly taller than Near, with close-fitting clothes and shoulder-length hair. He's colourless, completely grey, except for his eyes which shine blue. To many, those eyes would be ice-cold and unforgiving, but before a select few, they become warm, and sparkle like an innocent child's.

Mello's translucent fingers caress his brother's cheek. All Near feels is cold.

Tears dribble from Near's eyes, straight through Mello's hand. Mello leans close to Near, his mouth moving, but the words won't form. He presses his cheek to Near's, his hand resting on Near's jaw.

"Mello… Matt and Mello…" Near sobs, "You're both gone… I'm… alone."

Alas, time is short. Mello begins to disintegrate before Near. He only manages to say "I'm sorry, Near. Please forgive me," just like he would when they were children, when he would fall asleep in Near's arms, then he's gone, leaving Near completely alone, but not quite as empty as before.

**A/N**

**Seriously, type 'Hamburglar Matt' into Google Images**

**There's some angst for you. Next chapter; another murder, a few links made, and an interview with Near's favourite prime suspect (me)**

**-Laurel Silver**


	8. Videos, Glock17s and Suicide

"So…" Laurel leans back in her seat, braces glinting in a too-wide grin, "What's the Great L decidin' to call this case?"

"The Laurel Crown murders."

"Laurel?" she hisses, and chokes a facetious laugh, "an unfortuna'e name for me, eh, sir?"

"Perhaps," Near muses, in his signature position on the floor, staring at Laurel on the screen, her image surrounded by those of the victims. A new victim has joined; a boy called Lloyd Grey.

"Miss Silver, you are about to be shown a video, if that is alright."

"Yer askin' for consen'?"

"Yes. It is particularly gory."

"I'll be rate," [I'll be alright] Laurel waves the warning away. "I'm nor' a gore junkie, but I can 'andle a lil' blood."

The video plays, and Laurel frowns; "Tha's Lloyd."

*line* **A/N; this is what's happening in the video, but not everything you read here is visible in the video. The video is silent, and -_-_ signifies that Lloyd's faces had been scrambled, thus making the word unknown to Near etc., and I've removed it to make the story more interesting.**

Lloyd struggled on his bindings, watching the familiar girl pace the room, mumbling about memory and poetry. Eventually, she groaned in frustration, and growled something along the lines of "fuck it? It's gonna be free-verse. Don't give a shit no more."

"H-Hey!" Lloyd shouted at her, "What's going on? Where are we? Get me out!"

The girl adjusted the camera trained on his face, frowning in concentration. After a series of adjustments, she nodded, approving, and took up a Glock17.

"Now then, Lloyd," she said, pressing five bullets into the magazine, "I ain't sending the sound to this video to't police, 'cause I'm saving it for later."

"What?"

"I'm saving it. For a bigger, more special occasion."

"You… you're Laurel Crown?"

"Correct."

"Why?"

"Well… I'm killing **you** because you piss me off. Mr Popular, you think you can just ger' along with anyone, don't you?" she rambled a little more, and Lloyd's eyes grow wide.

"You're killing me out of -_-_-_-_?"

"I suppose you could call it that."

"And the others?"

"Same motive. Except Stephanie; she saw me kidnap Freckles. Couldn't have her telling Near, now, could I?"

"Who?"

"The Great Detective; L."

She snapped the magazine into the Glock17, and picked up a trench-coat.

"Are you gonna shoot me?"

"Yes. But don't worry; not all these bullets are for you."

She pulled on the coat. It was too large for her, and had an inordinate amount of padding on the inside, making her appear colossal. She slipped pair of football gloves over her strangely slim hands, and took up her handgun.

Moving behind Lloyd, she was now in full view of the camera, at least; her torso was. Her face and head are lost, and the plumping coat makes it difficult for the viewer to tell her gender.

She balanced the barrel of the gun on Lloyd's quivering lower lip. "Open."

Growling, she gripped Lloyd's jaw with her left hand, and thrust the gun into his mouth, chipping his teeth. The barrel scraped the roof of his mouth, drawing blood.

Lloyd grunted in fear as the gun turns, the barrel digging into the inside of his right cheek, his left cheek dragged back into a miserable sneer.

Bang.

Lloyd screamed as she pulls the trigger.

"D'you wanna know sommert' else, Lloyd?" she asked, "I hate people. I guess it's a second motive. I'm always discriminated, for my -_-_, the way I dress, my odd habits. Even my accent. That's just the worst of it. I'm proud to be from -_-_-_-_-_, and even in -_-_-_-_-_, I can't see my natural accent, 'cause you assholes take the piss."

Lloyd simply whimpered and sobbed, as the girls threw the shell away, and turned the gun to face the other cheek.

Bang.

The gun was pulled from Lloyd's bloody mouth. His eyes are closed, and he's thrashing in his chair. The barrel was positioned below his chin, pointing up to his mangled face.

Bang.

She held a card over his face, Lloyd still twitching, with a verse written in blue felt tip;

"There used to be a time when you could just say a rhyme

And wouldn't have to worry about one of your people dyin'

But now it's elevated 'cause once your enemies are dead

You need someone else's blood for painting in red."

*line*

Laurel's hand is clamped over her mouth; a mixture of horror, disgust, and reassurance that her jaw is still there. "Jesus tap-dancing Christ…"

Over the video, 'Toy soldiers' is playing, still by Holly and her Berries feat. Freckles Should and Stephanie Sweet.

"Tha's… tha's jus' horrific…"

"Yes," Near says, twirling his hair "Did you ever read Miss Baynton's poems?"

Laurel stares into the camera, her face a picture of shock, disgust, and disbelief, "Tha's a change in subject, ain't it, sir?" no answer. "Uh… a few… 'Theatre of Dreams'… 'Remarkable'…"

"I notice you pronounce the titles fully."

"Eh? Oh, my accen'… I guess it's respect, sir… she's gor a talen'."

"I agree. Did you ever read a poem titled 'Our Sweet Candy-girl'?"

"No. I din't read all of 'em, on'y the ones she shows me, and I ain't really read none since Emma-Leigh died."

"Yes. I hear you didn't get along with her."

"I won't put it tha' way… I could tolera'e 'er… wan't 'er mate, but din't 'ave nowt against 'er. She was a nice enough lass."

"She committed suicide, correct?"

"Yeah… Valky was destroyed. She hung hersen' from't laurel tree in't park. No note, no goodbye, no nowt. Me and Valky were there when she dropped from't branch… gave Valky that Post Trauma'ic Stress Disorder, it did."

Near stares at the screen, frowning slightly. Epilepsy and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder… that can't be a healthy combination… Valkyrie's black outs… her knowledge of the deaths… the pieces are starting to fall into place.

"Thank you, Laurel. The case is starting to take shape now. I am glad that you are so tolerant."

"What d'you mean by tha', sir?"

"You handled the video very well."

Laurel shrugs. "I've always been level-headed, Mr L, sir."

**A/N**

**"I've always been level-headed, Mr L, sir." Laurel said this in Chapter Two (Yorkshire Lass), and this isn't the last time she's going to say it!**

**Looks like Near's getting somewhere with this case. Looks like I'm going to have to destroy his evidence *evil face***

**I don't own Death Note or Eminem. Some of you Eminem fans will have noticed that I've changed the lyrics a little, but that will be explained later. Until then…**

**-Laurel Silver**


	9. Alas, poor Fred! I knew him

Alas, poor Fred! I knew him

Valkyrie sends the composer a nod, and gathers up her lyrics. The deaths of Holly and her Berries, and Stephanie, have frightened the Sleepy Hollow musicians into hiding, but Valkyrie still works as hard as usual.

Her job, you ask? Valkyrie Baynton is a lyricist. She works with bands, musicians, composers all over Sleepy Hollow to help them write lyrics, and has even sold full poems to bands. Never anything she'd poured her heart and soul into; just random verses she's thrown together when she was bored one day.

Being a lyricist isn't easy; being any sort of writer is difficult. Forcing words onto paper is always a bad idea, but recently, with all the deaths, Sleepy Hollow needs something to make it smile. Not that Valkyrie's nostalgic or yearning in this way, but she likes her little reputation. She likes the way she is thanked for writing something quirky or peaceful, something needed, to make the townsfolk laugh, smile or cry when they need to. She loves the tears that fall, the hands that applaud, the lips that whistle for _her_ and _her_ work.

_Her_. There's always someone else in Valkyrie's spotlight, from Holly taking the credit for her new lyrics, to Laurel being commended for proving that the lyrics had been written by Valkyrie, then Kadet jumps into the spotlight by 'scragging' Holly or one of the Berries. Valkyrie rarely gets a chance to shine, and when she does, it becomes half-lived. Laurel would point out to someone that Valkyrie did "this, tha' n' t'other'n", and Laurel would be congratulated for pointing it out.

Valkyrie smiles to herself, wandering further into the local mini-theatre. Laurel does try to shove Valkyrie into her lime light, from blatantly telling everyone; "Ma' mate Valkyrie wrote them lyrics," to publicly thanking Valkyrie for her contribution to her GHS series.

Valkyrie meanders aimlessly, muttering a little verse to herself;

"We'll maybe shout out to them in a song and in a chorus,  
To show them we love them; remind them how important it is,  
To have detectives and toy soldiers stood on our corners,  
Their loyalty to us is worth more than any award is."

Scanning the room, complete with scattered clothes and props, and Hamlet posters and news clippings littering the walls, she deducts that she is the dressing room.

She laughs to herself when she sees the skull on the dressing table. She holds it up, studying the prop. The right size, right shape, and a dull yellow colour. The grinning bone is even covered in a sticky red substance, and has little chunks clinging to it; 'hair' and 'flesh'.

Valkyrie holds up the skull, straightening her pose, and announces theatrically to the empty room; "Alas, poor Yurick! I knew him."

She laughs aloud; Valkyrie loves quoting Shakespeare. Then again, anyone with any level of respect for poetry and classic literature loves quoting Shakespeare, and Valkyrie quotes the legendary writer every chance she gets.

Narrowing her eyes, Valkyrie scrutinizes the skull, mumbling to herself; "I'll bet Adaven had some sort of contribution to this. It's gory-gross-gothic, just like her. Adavan'd sit for hours to make something like this; skulls and blood and carnage are just her thing."

Valkyrie runs her skeletal fingertips over the skull and frowns, bile forming in the back of her throat. Yes, just like Adaven, grisly and gruesomely realistic.

The hairs at the back of her neck stand on end as her eyes finally fall to a large shape lying in a puddle of blood on the floor.

*line*

"How did you manage to miss a dead body and a pool of blood on the floor?" the officer asks.

Valkyrie sits in the interrogation room, a little grateful to be talking to a person, not a camera. "I dunno… I was quoting Shakespeare…"

The officer raises an eyebrow. "Shakespeare?"

Valkyrie nods. "You don't read poetry or classics, do you?"

The officer scowls, "Not only is that rude, young lady, it is also completely irrelevant. This is the murder of Fred Tenor, a local school boy, not something to make jokes and insolent remarks about!"

A man in a trench-coat rests a hand on the officer's shoulder. Flashing the irritated authoritarian a badge, he acknowledges Valkyrie with a simple nod, never saying a word.

"Miss Baynton," an American voice greets from behind Watari. Watari steps to the side to reveal a young male dressed all in white pyjamas, except a pair of blue trainers that appear brand-new, with white hair that he twirls between his fingers, unnaturally coal black eyes, and a toy robot grasped in his hand. "After some consideration, Watari and I have decided that this case has been going on for too long, so I will be having a more physical presence within the case."

"L…" Valkyrie gapes.

"Please; Miles Kill."

"Uh…" Valkyrie frowns at the odd name. "Mr Kill… I'm sorry… I wasn't expecting… I thought you'd be older."

"Exactly the reaction to be expected, Miss Baynton. Now, what were you doing backstage to Hamlet, when there were no rehearsals or performances taking place?"

"Looking for inspiration… I don't want to write about the murders… it's too depressing."

"You have already written about the murders."

Valkyrie pauses, thinking hard, "Yeah… I guess I have… am I still a suspect?"

"It is strangely convenient that it would be _you_ to wander backstage and find the body, and only _your_ fingerprints are on his skull. Therefore, yes, you are still a suspect, but I now only suspect you 40%, as an oppose to your earlier 45%."

"Percents…" Valkyrie sighs, "I fucking hate Maths."

**A/N**

**Miles Kill= Mail Keehl= Mail Jeevas and Miheal Keehl**

**I wonder who takes up the remaining 65%...**

**Goodnight, good night, parting is such sweet sorrow, that I say goodnight till it be the next chapter…**

**-Laurel Silver; professional quote-ruiner.**


	10. L Kintaro

**A/N: Writing in **_italics_ **is Near and Valkyrie. Writing in **plain**is another murder. **

L Kintaro; her name. She knows she's different from normal teenage girls; doesn't dress like a five-bucks-an-hour prostitute, doesn't listen to auto-tuned remixes of old songs, knows the difference between 'to' 'two' 'too' and '2', but least of all… one of her best friends has been murdered. That would usually make her a pretty unique girl, but after Kira's reign, and the recent Laurel Crown murders, most people have lost someone dear to them.

_Valkyrie sits civilly, still shaking slightly, but seems to be over the storm-eye of her shock. Her trademark Trilby hat sits on the table, her curly dark hair standing up slightly from her constant tugging on it. On either side of her fringe, just above her temples, a small half-curl sits sideways and points upwards. Laurel sometimes jokes that they look like devil horns. And in the middle, a single curl stands upright, and Laurel called that curl 'Valkyrie's halo'._

L Kintaro; not a Kira worshipper. Not that you couldn't deduct that from her name.

_"Miss Baynton, I'd like to go over this poem with you," Near puts a piece of paper in front of her, patterned with Times New Roman._

_"There's nothing I can tell you about it," Valkyrie sighs, "I don't even remember writing it."_

L Kintaro; an effortful, clever girl. She's intelligent, but it's not natural for her to be intelligent. L worked hard to climb into top sets; away from all the future prostitutes she shares a school with.

_"Can you remember if you wrote the names in this order for a particular reason?"_

_"Yes, I did… but I don't remember the reason."_

L Kintaro; scientist. That was her forefront. She struggles with maths, but the concept of science makes sense to her, and the more she understands little things about the world around her, the more curios her scientific mind becomes. She hasn't just studied your mainstream Biology, Chemistry, Physics, but expanded her studies to Psychology and Sociology; the science of people.

_"The poem says 'five to the right', but only lists five people. Who did you miss off the list?"_

_"I don't know. I didn't even notice that."_

_"Surely, you have your poetry proof-read? Laurel mentioned that she's read some of your writings."_

_"Yeah… she has, but not this one… she hasn't read any in a while…"_

L Kintaro; 'raging emo kid'. Her love for bands like Green Day and My Chemical Romance, and her disregard for current trends have other teenagers label her as 'emo'. This, among other things, is one of L's pet peeves. Not being called 'emo', but stereotypes in general. She hates them, and watching others stereotyping and 'hating' really winds her up, gets on her nerves, grinds her motor.

_"Why not?"_

_"After we had a fall out… I guess I just didn't trust her the same way."_

_"This 'fall out' has been mentioned a few times. What was it about?"_

L Kintaro; not afraid to look the way she likes. She's a small girl, a healthy size, with a round face that's laced with laugh-lines, especially around her brown eyes and grinning mouth. No one can remember her hair colour, but at the moment, it's purple, and has been cut short, to mimic her idol; Billie Joe Armstrong. She wears little makeup, just thick black eyeliner that make her eyes stand out against her leathery, sun-kissed face. She usually wears band shirts with skinny jeans and either converse or her Doccers. She has a wide array of bracelets over her forearms, ranging from concert wristbands to friendship bracelets to plain circles of coloured plastic. And right now, a silver crown of laurel leaves encircles her head, resting just above her ears.

_"I can't even remember… it was around the time Emma-Leigh died… I think it had something to do with her, but… I don't remember what…"_

L Kintaro; the latest Laurel Crown victim. She is laid on a rickety wooden table, lengths of tightly knotted cord the newest additions to her bracelet collection. Awake, alive, and terrified, L watches her kidnapper as she pulls at L's shirt, cutting it open to reveal her collar bone. She holds the scalpel to L's chest, and cuts…

_"I don't know why we fell out. Laurel's… I don't know… but she was… there… Laurel was there, with me, when Emma-Leigh died…"_

L Kintaro; could have been a detective. She's logical, good at making links, and can be very scrutinizing and detailed.

_"I understand that this will be a delicate subject, but you… witnessed your sister's death?" Near knows from Angel and Beyond that witnessing death is a sure-fire road to mental deterioration. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and epilepsy cannot be a healthy combination._

L Kintaro; in pain. Her torturer cuts, and digs, and cuts, and slices, and cuts, and L bleeds, but something keeps her conscious. Probably her torturer's habit of slapping her awake whenever she stops moving.

_"Yes… Laurel and I were at the park, and Emma-Leigh hung herself… from the Laurel tree… no one could help her…" Valkyrie wipes a few tears from her face, "I didn't even notice that she was depressed… she didn't even leave a death note…"_

L Kintaro; bloody, agony, bloody. She screams as something hot is pressed into the freshly-dug hole. Her torturer smirks, and a glint tells L that the torturer either has a metal tooth or braces. Bracelets are pushed further up L's right arm, and words are painted on her arm in a thin liquid.

_"Laurel seems to have handled it well. Then again, you've already said that they weren't close."_

L Kintaro; dying. Something is poured over the left side of her body, avoiding her face and the heat in her chest. At first, it feels like water. Then, it burns. It burns a bitch. L Kintaro arches her back, and screams. And screams. And screams.

_"Laurel's always been level-headed."_

L Kintaro; somebody help her.

**A/N**

**Next chapter; super angst! **

**Is anyone starting to see a pattern yet?**

**And, quick note to a reviewer called 'Lizi Rinz'; Yes, yes, yes, you can translate it! I'm sorry if I seem a little over-excited, but I've never had my work translated before, and when I read the e-mail FFN sent me, I'm not joking here; I SCREAMED! So, uh, yeah… *le internet glomp* :)**

**-Laurel Silver, soon to be translated into Vietnamese **


	11. A message

"Miss Kintaro," Near seats himself on the stool by the table. They are in a science classroom, with numerous islands displaying dented taps for gas and water, and series of old grey sockets that haven't worked properly in years. The tables are tall, and old, with crude words and graffiti engraved into the splintering wood. The stools are mismatched; some tall, pale, wobbly, graffitted, others short and still look new and varnished. The ceiling is stained with smoke and the floor is stained from chemical and water spills, with clear scuffs in the lino from shoving the tables around the room. The blinds are black, and fitted into the windows to black-out the room for light experiments.

A single table has been dragged to the middle. And upon this table lays L Kintaro, awake, alive, and in absolute agony.

"A-A-Are you an angel?" she asks quietly, turning her head to gaze at Near.

"No," Near says gently, "That's my brother."

"So… you're a demon?"

"No, though that is an excellent deduction. I am L."

L laughs. "L, meet L."

"Please, call me Miles. Miles Kill."

"Miles. Codename, I suppose?"

"Of course. Miss Kintaro, I'm afraid…"

"Mr Kill," L interrupts, "I know it's sulphuric acid, I know there's a light bulb buried between my tits, and I know I'm going to die. Now, please pack it in with the formalities, and have a civil conversation with me before I die."

Near blinks at her sharpness, staring dumbly at her.

L breathes raggedly, trying not to twitch or hyperventilate. "I don't want helping, Miles, 'cause there's only so much a hospital can do. I don't want my parents to be forced to switch me off. Let me die."

Near nods, and waves the paramedic away from her side. "It's a very brave thing you're doing, Miss Kintaro, and I respect your decision."

L sighs, "Formalities! Pack it in! Now; something had been written on my right arm in liquid, probably ink. The killer was familiar as fuck, but I can't name her. Large. Something metal in her mouth, like braces or a metal tooth or something. Yorkshire accent. Boots, walked heavily. Clumsy, and worked slowly. Wore a watch and a couple of bracelets around her left wrist."

"This is most certainly detailed, Miss Kintaro."

"I've watched enough Detective School Q to know that details solve the case. And, again, with the formalities."

"I am sure that your details will prove most useful."

L leans her head back on the table, finding a particular smoke stain strangely interesting. "I hope so. Whoever this lass is, she's nuts. She makes Adaven look normal."

"Adaven?"

"Adaven Burrows; a friend of mine. Bit mad, but we tend to use the term 'quirky'?"

"Yes," Near smiles, "many people have odd quirks, don't they?" Lawliet and strawberries, Angel and lollipops, Beyond and jam, Mello and chocolate, Matt and cigarettes.

"All the best people do."

Near stares blankly. L laughs weakly, "I have a very unique viewpoint. I'm just a Special Snowflake."

Silence covers the room, the paramedics waiting patiently for any signal, or a change in L's condition.

"Hey, Miles," L says gently, apparently miles away, no pun intended, "D'you think there's an afterlife?"

_"I'm sorry, Near. Please forgive me." _That was all Mello had had time to say.

"Yes. I believe that there's a horde… no… a family… yeah, a family of angels, up there in heaven, watching over us. And they're waiting for us, and they'll wait for us forever if they have to, because they love us, even if they're not our real family." Tears are pricking in Near's eyes after his little rant.

He looks up, shocked, as a couple of fingers brush his cheek. L is reaching up, gritting her teeth against the pain in her chest, paramedics mumbling and whispering to each other. She smiles shakily, and rests a hand on the small boy's jaw. "Your posture's so closed. Your face is blank, and you try not to give anything away. But, you fidget, and pull on your clothes, and your jaw's all clenched up. You're miserable, Miles. You hide it well, but little things, little slip-ups… you're human, and you have emotion. I don't know what happened to you, but you're not over it, are you?"

Near shakes his head. "But that's not important. Do you have any final requests?"

L nods. "I want my books going to Fred and Laurel. They can pick for themselves, but Fred gets the Harry Potter books; he'll love them, and Laurel has to share the manga with Adaven's brother. Adaven gets the samurai sword, and all the Green Day and My Chemical Romance CDs. She can have the drawing stuff too, if she wants it."

"I'll make sure it's done," Near says, not having the heart to tell her of Fred's death.

"I want to be buried with my Grandma," L speaks softly. "That's, like, my final… final wish… to be buried with my Grandma."

Near nods. "Of course."

"What about you?"

"Me? Well, I'd want to be buried with…"

"No…" L interrupts, "I'm about to die, Miles. If they're up there, waiting for you, whoever 'they' are, what do you… want them to know?"

Near pauses, "Uh…"

"I'm sure I'll find 'them' somehow. I'll tell them you miss them."

"Yes… yes, please. And… that I love them too… they were like my brothers…"

L smiles, but the smile is weak and lazy, and a few tears escape her eyes, more eyeliner streaking across her face.

"And Matt and Mello…" Near stutters, struggling for words, for once in his life, "tell them… tell them that… they're…"

Near doesn't finish his sentence in time. L's hand drops, the tears stop, and the kind smile freezes on her face.

L Kintaro; dead.

*line*

"I believe you have a message for us?" L opens her eyes to see four boys standing around her: a blue punk with a brown collar, cuffs, and Doccers; one with shockingly red eyes; one with blonde hair, a rosary and fully clad in leather; a red-head in goggles and a striped shirt with Pocky hanging from his mouth like a cigarette.

"Yes," L sits up. No more pain. "Miles Kill…" the blonde and the red-head exchange a heartbroken look, and the red-eyed one covers a teary smile, "Loves you, and misses you, and you were like his brothers."

The punk nods, holding back sobs, "Ta, Miss," he croaks, and lets the red-eyed one lead him away.

"I'll guess you're Matt and Mello," L asks. The duo nods. "He was going to send you a special message, but I'm sorry… I died… I stuck around, to see if he'd finish his sentence, but…"

"It's okay," Matt puts a hand on her shoulder. "Thank you, L."

"L?" a shout reaches them. L gazes to her right to see a boy, with a shock of Weasley hair and a Superman shirt waving wildly, his face a picture of pure happiness.

"Fred? But… he's alive…"

"No…" Mello steps back, giving L a clear view, "He died yesterday. He watched you being killed… he cried… he waited for you…"

L chokes up a sob, and stands, running towards the boy. Fred is significantly taller than her, so her face is in his chest as he hugs her tight. He tells her he's so sorry she had to endure her torture. She tells him it's not his fault. He tells her that there are more to be killed. He tells her that Adaven's next. She's saddened by this. He says it's alright. He says they'll wait for her. She nods, and sits by him, watching their friend, sitting by the laurel tree in the park, drawing.

L Kintaro, and Fred Tenor; at peace.

**A/N**

**Okay, here come the disclaimers**

**I don't own: Death Note, a science classroom, Detective School Q, Special Snowflakes, the Afterlife, Harry Potter, a samurai sword, Green Day, My Chemical Romance, or the Weasleys hair colour. I do own a pair of Doccers, but not the company. I own the series GHS, but the characters are only part-owned by me, as they are partly owned by the persons on which they are based.**

**Angsty enough for you? And just to clarify; Fred and L are not a couple, just in case anyone interpreted it that way. I apologise for any confusion.**

**-Laurel Silver**


	12. Dead dolls in Toy town

**A/N: Writing in **_italics_** is Near. **Plain** is Laurel and Valkyrie. **Underlined** is Adaven.**

Laurel and Valkyrie giggle, rolling randomly across the floor of Valkyrie's small bedroom. They both stop, staring at a particularly interesting crack in the ceiling. Silence fills the air, until Valkyrie points at a feathery pink ornament hanging from the corner of the window.  
"Dream catcher!" she exclaims, and the loud guffawing ensues again.

_Near chews on his thumb, his thin knee curling into his chest. A sticky replica of the Angel of the North, his homage to Almost, stands behind him, and a small imitation of Sleepy Hollow surrounds him, with little houses, and a park, and a white scarf to symbolise the river._

"We ain't done this in ages," Laurel sighs, grinning, "Been a righ' pair o' kids."  
"We haven't since…" Valkyrie trails off, "Emma-Leigh."  
An uncomfortable silence settles heavily on the two girls.

_Little dolls are scattered across the toy town, symbolic of victims and suspects alike._

"You've gotta le' go, Valky," Laurel says quietly.  
"We can't all be as level-headed as you."

_Holly Sange bled to death by the river. _

Adaven Burrows is an artist. A talented one, too.  
At the moment, her parents are encouraging her to stop drawing creepy-cool voodoo dolls, and draw nicer things. So here she is, at the foot of the laurel tree, drawing the park. Her parents will see it as a pretty picture of the playground, and neither will notice that the drawing is as dark and empty as she is.

_Talisa, Bibiana and Tarragon shot, and dumped in alleyways around the Marquee._

Adaven isn't depressed, like many people think. She's just a surrealist.

Laurel sighs, "Look, it's very sad tha' she died…"  
"You don't give a shit," Valkyrie snaps coldly.  
Laurel sighs again, this time much deeper, and genuine. "Fuck your selective mem'ry."

"Parks are difficult to draw," Adaven mutters to herself, rubbing out a wonky swig for at least the sixth time. But, she'll keep at it.

_ Freckles Should smothered in the football field by the park, the corner of which used to be the favourite 'hang-out' of the G-Maff. _

Adaven, much like L, does not follow trend, or join gangs.

"Yeah…" Valkyrie growls.  
Laurel gives a chuckle. "I though' we'd already 'ad this conversation, Valkyrie."

_Stephanie Sweet, stabbed and smothered, at the foot of the laurel tree, coincidentally the same tree that Emma-Leigh Baynton hung herself from a couple of years ago._

Adaven likes to be alone. She likes people-watching. She likes drawing. She likes her hair; black, shaped to fall smoothly around her head, with a blonde fringe that she likes to colour during the school holidays. She likes fan-girling with L about Green Day and My Chemical Romance. 

_Lloyd Grey shot in an empty warehouse on the docks._

Adaven dislikes many things. She dislikes fashion, and trends, and most modern music. She dislikes anything she has to put effort into. She dislikes the way her older brother and her Dad threaten to beat up any boy or man she gets close to. She dislikes L's ex-boyfriend, for multiple reasons.

_Fred Tenor scalped and decapitated in the theatre._

Adaven doesn't have personal ties to people. Not because she doesn't like people, but because her detached attitude makes it impossible. She doesn't trust anyone as far as she can throw them, and since she avoids physical contact, she doesn't throw people very often.

_L Kintaro tortured to death in the school science room. _

If she had to list her 'friends', Adaven would say 'L' before anyone else. Her and L have many mutual interests, and get along well. Valkyrie, Stephanie and Kadet just irritate her. Laurel picks on her. L is probably the only person Adaven would call a 'friend'.

_Laurel Silver and Valkyrie Baynton, the only dolls standing, are in Valkyrie's house near the river. _

Laurel leans close to Valkyrie, and is virtually whispering; "'Ow many times have we gotta go ove' this? Do you really think Emma-Leigh will want to see you? She's dead, you're alive, and she'll be wan'ing to keep it tha' way. So grow up, get over yersen', and go back to being innocen'ly ignoran'."  
"But I remember…"  
"Then forge'."  
"But…"  
"Hey, hey," Laurel flashes Valkyrie a brace-filled smile, "It'll be rate. It'll all be rate."

_And finally, a faceless doll in the tree, with a thin piece of string tying her to the papier-mâché tree by her neck._

**A/N for a short chapter**

**It'll be rate = It will be alright. **

**I don't own Death Note, Toy town, the Angel of the North, Green Day or My Chemical Romance.**

**I wonder what Valkyrie remembers?**

**-Laurel Silver**


	13. A thousand

Adaven Burrows lays by see-saw, her lags bent in a relaxed position, her arms crossed over her chest, the sleeves of her Cookie Monster hoodie rolled up to her shoulders, her eyes staring up to the sky. At first glance she looks peaceful and content, she's lost in her own surreal little world, until you remember that the Cookie Monster is blue, not three shades more purple than red.

Near rests two fingertips on Adaven's eyelids, closing the skin over the green-speckled orbs. Now, she just looks asleep.

_L snakes her arm around Adaven's, and throws the other around Fred's shoulders._

_Adaven looks around. "Oh. So there is an afterlife."_

_L walks, leading Adaven and Fred through the gates to heaven._

"An ancient Chinese execution method," Roger sighs, averting his spectacled eyes away from Adaven's corpse. "A thousand cuts. Though the cuts would usually be made over the chest and back, not the forearms."

_Family arguments, fall-outs with parents and siblings, have left them with trust and friendship difficulties. Stereotypes. They're freaks, out-grouped, shunned from society. They only really had each other._

_L Kintaro, Fred Tenor, Adaven Burrows; detached from society. Always have been, but now, it's a little less literal._

"But why…" Near rests a hand on Adaven's shoulder. Blood seeps from the fabric and stains the teenage detective's fingers. In his other hand, Mello's teddy is clenched, scanning the scene with black button-eyes.

It isn't just Adaven's chest that has been stained, where her wrists crossed. The whole hoodie has been stained purple.

"Why… and how?" Near asks aloud.

Near's eyes wander back up to the victim's face, or more pointedly, the crown nestling above her ears. As silvery and delicate as ever, the laurel leaves sit prettily over Adaven's obsidian hair. And, on the first leaf on the right, a little red smudge spoils the shiny grey. Near can practically see the swirly lines of a fingerprint in the blood spot.

"Watari," Near calls up to Roger, "Get the crown checked for fingerprints. Especially that smudge."

"Mr Kill?" Roger requests, continuing with codenames, "You may want to have a look at this."

Near calmly rises to head in Roger's direction. He doesn't even need to draw parallel with Roger to see what he's supposed to be looking at.

There, on the concrete, something- or rather, someone- has been painted in great detail. He is sat, cross-legged, with a pair of leather gloves and a fur warmer next to him. A Game Boy rests in his slim hands. A striped shirt, and baggy jeans blousing into a thick, sturdy pair of boots. A pair of goggles have been pushed up onto his forehead. The only colour the artist has used is red; his hair.

Near crouches, his knees in his chest, much like Lawliet, and studies the painting. The grey paintbrushes have been left around the boy, except for his hair. The hair is textured differently, and the still-wet liquid is too thin to be normal paint.

"So this is why the whole hoodie was stained," Near murmurs, "Laurel Crown used it to paint Matt's hair in Adaven's blood."

Near studies the graffiti a little harder. It's familiar.

*line*

"Hello?"

"Linda? It's Near. I have a very important question."

"It must be important for you to be communicating."

"Did you draw the picture for Matt's memorial?"

"No. I drew A, B.B, L and Mello, but not Matt."

"Then who did?"

"Some girl… she was only in Wammy's a couple of weeks. She was a writer, and just scraped herself in by luck."

"Her name?"

"Never knew her real name, but her alias was Oak. Oak Platinum."

"Thank you, Linda," Near hangs up without a proper goodbye, "Roger, what can you tell me about Oak Platinum? Apart from the fact that she was a writer and just scraped into Wammy's by luck."

"Uh…" Roger gazes to the sky, as if the answers are written in the stars, "she was from Yorkshire, somewhere around here. Never went anywhere without a notebook. Liked drawing, but wasn't talented at it. Her art was interesting though. She'd only ever use a couple of colours, like grey and red, and when she worked hard, her drawings weren't bad. It's her drawing that's…"

"On Matt's memorial," Near nods, "What happened to her when she was sent home?"

"That's it; she went home. She wasn't an orphan like most Wammy prodigies. Both parents with stable jobs, in a stable marriage. She herself became a journalist and a writer, working towards a scholarship into an Arts Academy. Fairly intelligent, gets relatively good grades, not quite Wammy's standard though."

"You said she came from somewhere around here. She would happen to be from here, would she?"

"She…might…"

"Her name?"

"Now that… I'll have to check the files. But it was something similar to Oak Platinum. Not phonetically… but… I can't explain it… like a 'Daisy' changing her name to 'Rose' or 'Poppy'. I'll… I'll go find out…"

*line*

Near is alone. He sits on one of the swings, caution tape wrapping around the chain, Mello's teddy laid on the ground behind him. His head rests against the chain, and he gazes into the grey of the night, his thoughts running away with him.

Pain. There are a thousand kinds of pain. Every last one of Laurel Crown's victims died in pain. Near is in pain. Near has never been a hateful boy, but he hopes that Light 'Kira' Yagami is in great pain.

**The pain…** Kira took his family.

**It hurts…** they'd promised he'd never be alone. But, of course, they'd been children back then.

**It hurts so much…** Near's alone, not just in the park, but until the day he dies. Angel, Beyond, Matt and Mello stood in the gap where the River family should have stood. But now they lie in different places across the world. Angel in England, Beyond in Los Angeles, Matt in Tokyo. Mello's ashes were never found.

**Why'd they have to go?**

*line*

Valkyrie gives her friend a watery smile. "Well, 'Oak Platinum'. It's my turn now, isn't it?"

Oak grins a metallic smirk. "Jus' one more poem?"

Valkyrie frowns. "I don't wanna."

"Aw' come on, Valky!" Valkyrie shakes her head. "Yer' know you can trust me."

"You're about to kill me."

Oak pats Valkyries head, smiling satanically. "It'll be rate, Valky. It'll be rate."

**A/N**

**I don't own Death Note or the Cookie Monster. I want cookies now.**

**If you haven't already worked out who the murderer is yet, it'll be revealed in the next chapter. Probably. I don't know; I haven't written it yet, and the chapters rarely turn out quite as planned so… we'll wait and see.**

**-Laurel Silver**


	14. In 'Loving' Memory

Holly Sange  
Singer  
A permanent smile  
But no tongue to sing with  
I guess she won't be joining the angel choir

Talisa, Bibiana, Tarragon  
Musicians  
Just copies of their idol  
But not quite the same  
They never reached beyond their initial

Stephanie 'Gobstopper' Sweet  
Backstabber  
I stabbed her back  
And stopped her gob  
And that's all that's left of our Sweet Candy-girl

Lloyd Grey  
Mr Popular  
It's difficult to talk with no cheeks  
It's difficult to talk with bullets in your jaw  
It's difficult to talk when you're dead

Fred Tenor  
Actor  
All the world is a stage  
And all the men and women merely players  
Alas, poor Fred! I knew him.

L Kintaro  
Scientist  
A light in the dark  
And dangerously clean 'water'  
Conclusion; she died

Adaven Burrows  
Artist  
A morbid surrealist  
With an exceptional talent  
Although I preferred my drawing

Valkyrie Baynton  
Poet  
Selective memory is a useful accessory  
She only cared for her sister  
She'd better be happy now

Kadet Flanders  
Army Cadet  
Step by step, heart to heart, left right left  
We all fall down like Toy Soldiers  
St John's Catholic Church

Nate River  
Near, L,  
Wait.  
Just wait;  
You'll see them soon

Oak Platinum  
Laurel Crown  
Bit by bit, torn apart, we never win  
But the battle rages on for Toy Soldiers  
Laurel Silver

*line*

"It took a while, but I found Oak's file…"

"Laurel Silver?"

"Yes… how did you know?"

"Valkyrie wrote it. In her last poem."

Near can her Roger's gasp over the phone. "You mean…" After a stunned silence, Roger hangs up, muttering something along the line of "poor girl. She trusted her, the poor, poor girl."

Near gazes down at Valkyrie's corpse. Her clothes are covered in bloody handprints, some from the struggle, some from straightening out the body. The head appears flat, like a deflated ball. On closer inspection, one can see how the face has been carefully cut away from the scalp, and the skull is missing.

*line*

Valkyrie closes her eyes. She knows that the 'Laurel Crown' murders aren't over. She knows that Laurel has two bullets, still in that Glock17, each with a name written down the side. But she's stopped caring. She stopped caring when she saw a familiar face. A face that has waited for her for the last two years.

Valkyrie hugs Emma-Leigh to her tightly, and Emma-Leigh knows that she, like Fred and L, doesn't have to wait anymore.

**A/N**

**Watch out for swearing, and a strong Yorkshire accent, in the next couple of chapters. Quick note to Lizi Rinz, and any other translators or 'English as an Additional Language' readers; if you are having trouble understanding Laurel Silver, PM me and I will happily 'translate' it into plain English. In the next couple of chapters, if she says anything really confusing, I'll put a 'translation' in [square brackets]. Also, should I put 'translations' into the chapters anyway? I didn't really think her accent through, did I? And finally, if you translate, you don't need my permission (though it would be nice to know) just translate it and send me a link! This goes for drawings too.**

**Disclaimers; I don't own Death Note, Shakespeare, Martika/Eminem, Toy Soldiers/Like Toy Soldiers, St John's Catholic Church or Glock17.**

**This poem and 'Our Sweet Candy-girl' will be explained in a couple of chapters, as well as the murders. Disclaimer II; I have not killed anyone. The people from whom these characters are based are alive at this moment in time. I am not actually a murderer.**

**-Laurel Silver; not a murderer.**


	15. Aren't a murderer

**A/N: **Underlined** is a quote, **_italics_** is a flashback to L.**

There she hangs, a teenage girl, from the wooden rafting in the ceiling of St John's Catholic Church. She is a healthy size, with brown hair smoothed back into a bun at the back of her neck and a beret clamped to her crown. She wears a basic Army Cadet uniform, with shiny black boots. Red handprints over the shoulders, elbows and one on her face, over her nose and mouth. Black cord suspends her in mid-air, tied around her wrists, elbows, ankles, knees, and twists around her chest and shoulders. Her laurel crown lies on the floor.

Rodger signs a cross over his chest, removing his hat. "Poor, poor girl."

Near settles himself on the floor, several feet away from 'poor' Kadet Flanders. "Miss Silver? I know that you are here."

"What is that?" someone says in a silly, pedantic, high-pitched voice. "That," it becomes deeper, and familiar, "My dear Valkyrie, is a monster."

A thud echoes from the front of the church. The altar has been shoved onto its side, and Laurel stands in its place, a laurel crown hanging from one blood-stained hand, a skull balancing in the other. Now able to see her personally, Near can see every detail. _She was familiar as fuck. _The two silver bracelets and the watch on her left wrist,_ wore a watch and a couple of bracelets around her left wrist,_ a small collection on string bracelets and bobbles on the right. Codes of numbers, letters and random words have been scrawled over her left hand in black biro, barely visible under the coat of blood. An ankh hangs from a long silver chain around her neck. Her flabby face is framed by the short hair at the front standing on end, like a thin, pathetic mane. Her feet are small, out of proportion with her chunky body. _Large_. _Boots, walked heavily._ Her fingers are long and slim, like she works on keyboards often. Her acne is more scabs than spots. She smiles, _something metal in her mouth, like braces or a metal tooth or something, _and there are the braces.

"A grand entrance, Miss Silver," Near says bluntly.

"Doors are for people with no imagination," Laurel pronounces everything perfectly, without it sounding forced, instead of speaking with her painfully thick Yorkshire accent.

Laurel notices Near frowning at her speech. "Yer' liking me' accent, Na'e? When I were seven, I 'ad this proper bitchy teacher, Anderson, who made me speak 'Queen's English' 'cause my accent were 'improper' and it won't 'ladylike'. Like I ever gave a shit about bein' ladylike."

"It is a dramatic change. And it makes you much easier to understand."

"Easier…" Laurel laughs, whirling the crown around her fingers, "Lord, what fools these mortals be!"

"May I ask why your accent changes?"

"'Cause I sound stupid tryin' to quote Shakespeare n' Skulduggery wit' a Yorkshire accent. Y'know, Valky here," she nods the skull towards Near, "Loved 'em both. I consider the quoting a lil' homage to 'er."

"Such a caring friend. So caring, you killed her."

"O woe! O woeful, woeful, woeful day! Most lamentable day. Most woeful day that ever, ever I did yet behold! O day, O day, O day! O hateful day! Never was seen so black a day as this. O woeful day! O woeful day!"

"You cannot use Shakespeare to cover up your murders."

Laurel gapes. "Murder? Lord, what fools these mortals be! I aren't a murderer, I ain't never been a murderer, and I ain't never gon' be a murder."

"So what do you call this?" Near gestures up to Kadet.

Laurel sniffs. "Decorating. She's me' lil' Toy Soldier, she is. A puppet o' authori'ies."

"You have very strong opinions."

"Tha' I do, tha' I do." [That I do [Yes, I agree]]

"May I ask whose crown that is?"

Laurel studies the crown with an expression of indifference. "Yours."

Near blinks in shock, and Roger steps in front of him protectively. "What would killing L result in?"

Laurel rolls her eyes, "Panic? Fear? An empty parking space at the SPK?"

Roger gapes, dumbfounded. "You are such a moron."

"Don't be jealous of my genius. 'Ne-way [Anyway], d'you wanna try it on? I 'ad to guess the size, but you always were a midget, so…" she tosses the crown, and it skids across the floor. Her arm folds backwards, her hand nestling in the small of her back, her long, bloody fingers stroking something metallic.

Near plucks the crown from the floorboard, taking little notice of the blood smears. "I also have something for you to try on. A nice jacket…"

Laurel roars with laughter. "A jacket? Lemme guess; buckles at the back, n' you fold yer' arms as a bunch of nice young men in clean white coats come 'o bundle in a quiet lil room with a mattress on the floor." The guffawing continues, becoming maniacal, "You think I'm crazy."

"Yes," Near says bluntly.

Laurel storms forward, pulling her Glock17 from the waistband of her jeans.

Bang.

Near scuttles to one side as Roger falls to the floor. He should scream, he should cry, but despite a torrent of emotions raging in him like a volcano, his face remains blank and dry.

"Jus' one bullet left, Near," Laurel sighs. "You're so blank." _"Your posture's so closed. Your face is blank, and you try not to give anything away."_

Laurel positions the barrel between Near's eyes. "I aren't a murderer, n' I ain't crazy. N' I am caring. Valky died quickly," she makes the skull nod, "I smothered 'er. She barely even put up a fight. She 'ad a bit of a death wish." The skull bobs up and down.

"'Ne last words?"

Near scowls, the strongest emotion that has ever split across his face. "You will be found, Laurel Silver. The files will be found, the police will track you down, and you will rot in jail."

Laurel chuckles. "Nymph, in thy 'orisons be all my sins remember'd."

The gun is cocks, and Near doesn't even flinch. Laurel sighs, and sings softly in a tuneless voice, "Step by step, heart to heart, left, right, left, we all fall down, like toy soldiers. Bit by bit, torn apart, we never win, but the battle wages on, for toy soldiers."

She sets Valkyrie's skull on the floor. "Only emptiness remains. It replaces all the pain."

The laurel crown is forced onto Nears head, and, much like Valkyrie, he doesn't fight back. Laurel grins a silvery grin, "Won't you come out and play with me?"

Bang.

*line*

"Wait!" Angel shouts. Matt and Mello freeze, and glare back at the blue punk. "If you go into Purgatory," Angel pants, "Your bodies will go back to the state they were in when you died. I.e., bullet holes and burn scars come back."

"I don't give a shit!" Mello yells, storming away. Matt nods his agreement, and follows his blonde bomb.

A few steps into purgatory, and Matt's body fills with pain. Mello is clutching his face, growling. Blood drips down Matt's chest and back, and skin peels form Mello's body. They're dying again.

*line*

Near stumbles forward, blood still dribbling from the hole in his forehead. He grips onto the shoulders of Matt and Mello, and follows the voices of Angel and Beyond towards a pair of shining gates.

"Matt… Mello…" Near pants. The trio pause, still dying in Purgatory. "You never got the end of my message…" he looks up, to another trio. One with dyed black hair, blonde framing her face. One who's hair is a Weasley ginger. The third is much shorter than the other two, one hand tugging at her violet locks, her arm adorned with a variety of bracelets.

"I…" Near wheezes, "I… I forgive you…"

Matt and Mello freeze, then physically drag him into heaven, half-hugging him as they do so. They heave Near into heaven, past a pair of girls. There is little resemblance between the two girls, but anyone acquainted with them knows that they are sisters.

**A/N**

**I don't own Death Note, Toy Soldiers, Shakespeare, Skulduggery Pleasant, or Glock17.**

**Lots of swearing in the next chapter, with explanations, angst, insanity and first person narrative *gasp***

**Almost finished!**

**-Laurel Silver**


	16. Look at Laurel

**A/N: This is in Laurel's point of view**

Two years. That's how long I've been here. Two. Fucking. Years.

Yep. They caught me. It's not like I was expecting to get off the hook, 'causes killing's killing, ain't it? But like any good murderer, I underestimated the local police. Bloody coppers.

So here I am; Bleakmoor loony bin. A cosy little place, well out of the way, with comfy, bright rooms and a free, complimentary jacket. Five stars, would recommend- yeah, that's sarcasm.

This place is a hell-hole, I swear to fuck. The food's shit, the doctors are assholes, the nurses are skets, and the system is moronic. Einstein (heh. His name literally means One-stone. Anyway…) he once said that "insanity is repeating the same thing over and over again, and expecting different results." If that's insanity, then why are these Quacks making the insane do the same things over and over again? Won't that just make them more insane? Or would the insanity counterbalance, and make them sane again? I haven't a fucking clue. All I know is that I'm bored shitless.

So, I know what you're thinking, what you're here for. "Laurel! Y u kill dem peoples? Dey was innocent!1!111" Either that, or "What did you write on L's arm?" That's a more intelligent question, I think. But I'm not gonna tell you, 'cause it ain't important.

Now, what kind of answer are you expecting? I was bored? I didn't like those people? I wanted to go down in history as the criminal who escaped both L and Kira?

Nah. Non. Nein. Niente. Nope. You're wrong. Dumb-ass. Hah.

If I got bored, I had internet. And some of them people were tolerable. I didn't dislike them, they were okay. And the criminal who escaped both L and Kira… was caught by a bunch of doughnut-eating piggy-morons. Which is kinda funny… the God of the New World failed, the child who brought God down failed, but some fuck-head with a couple of GCSEs and a pot belly succeeded. Hah!

Nah… as I'm sure everyone's favourite albino will have already deducted, I suffer from something these Quacks are calling an 'inferiority complex'.

Inferior. Jesus tap-dancing Christ, that's the story of my life, that is. Expectations, predictions, targets, leading to failure. Predicted an A? I got a C. "Well done!" No. It's not fucking 'well done!' I failed. You might be happy with your Es, but unlike you, I'd like to steer clear of the street corners, thank you kindly.

I got into Wammy's by luck. I was lucky, because the exam was filled with shit that I knew. Easy shit. When I got into Wammy's, they realised that I wasn't a genius. That I didn't want to be L. And when I told Wammy-Watari-whatever exactly what I thought of him and his precious genii… well… they sent me home.

Home. Jesus tap-dancing Christ, even Bleakmoor beats that shit-hole.

I'm the fifth child of eight. Kae got herself knocked up when she was fourteen, eighteen, then lost both sons eighteen months ago. Everyone look at Kae the whore. Stacey- a girl with a boy's name- is covered in tattoos and piercings. Everyone look at Stacey the human canvas. Danny's always been distant, unknown. Everyone look at Danny- oh wait! You can't see him! Rebecca left for Hungary. Everyone look at Rebecca and how far her life's taken her. Xander has Middle Child syndrome, even though he's not the middle child. Everyone look at Xander; he must be so distraught. Herbie and Peaches; baby-faced and identical. Everyone look at Herbie and Peaches. Everyone loves twins, and everyone loves people with baby-faces.

Everyone look at Laurel… uhm… uh… yeah… she's got her dad's eyes… uh… that's about it.

She doesn't write. She isn't a journalist. She not working on a scholarship to a prestigious Arts Academy in another country. She's never written something so creepy-awesome that someone's offered to translate it into Vietnamese. Nah, Laurel does nothing with her life.

Even my name. My fucking name- Laurel Silver. Not gold; silver.

That's one of the few things I liked about Wammy's House. I picked my name. I was originally going to call myself Sycamore Gold. Gold because it's first, it's number one. Sycamore, to bring back happy memories of my childhood, when Kae was kind, Stacey was a neat freak, Danny was friendly, Rebecca was here, and Xander, Herbie and Peaches hadn't been born yet; when I would sit under the sycamore tree in the playground, as a part of a strange, intricate game we called 'Hot Chocolate'.

But then I decided that I didn't want to be number one, because number one means becoming L. I wanted to be better than that, better than gold, better than L. Hence Platinum. The only thing I could think of that was better than gold, apart from diamond, but having Diamond as your surname make you sound like a stripper.

Oak Platinum. Because Sycamore Platinum just didn't have the right ring to it.

Silver. Second. Never quite the best. So I wanted to be better than the best, because I'd still never be best, would I? And how does one become better than the best? Destroy the best. If the best is destroyed by something inferior, then that inferior something is better than the best, right? And how does one destroy something? Kill it. Kill-it-kill-it-kill-it-kill-it-kill-it. I killed the best. The best in town.

Holly Sange; Singer. Can't sing without her tongue, now, can she?  
Talisa, Bibiana, Tarragon; Musicians. Just copies of Holly, but never quite the same.  
Lloyd Grey; Mr Popular, People Person. Can't chatter away without his jaw, now, can he?  
Stephanie 'Gobstopper' Sweet; Backstabber. I stabbed her back.  
Freckles Should; Mathematician. He was still an asshole.  
Fred Tenor; Actor. They should have used his skull in Hamlet, 'cause then he'd still be in the play, wouldn't he?  
L Kintaro; Scientist. I tried to turn her into Iron Man. It didn't work. Oh- and the writing on her arm? That's still not important.  
Adaven Burrows; Artist. I painted a pretty picture with her blood.  
Valkyrie Baynton; Poet. And doesn't she know it!  
Kadet Flanders; Army Cadet.

And how can I survive with these coffins on my conscience? I barely do. They're here, y'know. You're stood there, staring, but you can't see them, 'cause they don't want you to. No… nah, nah… only me… because I'm the one who killed them. They stand there, glaring. They're waiting for me to die, so they can kill me again. And again. And again. And again. 'Cause the dead don't die, do they? Am I even making any fucking sense anymore?

Doctors are morons. It's official. I didn't tell them about the ghosts at the back of the room. I told them about my childhood, smiled nicely and thanked them politely when they brought my food, let them give me my therapy. The fucking idiots thought I was safe to leave the room. The fucking idiots thought I was safe to wander around on my own. The fucking idiots thought I was safe to go near the desk, near the stationary, near the pencil sharpeners and their beautifully thin blades.

Fucking idiots.

I give each ghost a smile, from Holly to Kadet. Valkyrie's not there. Not that I give a shit. She's probably playing tea-party with Emma-Leigh, or something.

A grin splits across my face, a grin that the Cheshire cat would envy, as I carve two words into my arm. The same two words that I painted on L's arm.

Those words? Just like me, they're not important enough, not good enough to be mentioned. Not quite.


	17. Hanging from the laurel tree

Emma-Leigh and Laurel had never really got along. Emma-Leigh was many things that Laurel wasn't; quiet, pretty, a healthy size. Her accent was fascinating- understandable, at least- with strong American influences that any Brit would find fascinating, and enough English influence to fascinate any American. She had a petite frame and gently tanned skin, a smiley mouth and sparkly eyes. She was clean, tidy and organised.

Despite all this, Emma-Leigh was still childish and giggly, much like Laurel. Valkyrie thought that they should have got along. But Emma-Leigh's cuteness and cleanliness clashed with Laurel's laziness and eccentricities. Not quite to the extent that they became enemies; if it wasn't for Valkyrie, they'd never had made any sort of communication. They'd simply have co-existed, a complete stranger to the other.

Valkyrie noticed that they didn't get along. She'd have to have been a complete idiot not to. In the presence of each other, Emma-Leigh would try to busy herself with something else. Valkyrie tried to keep them separate, and Laurel would become quiet. At home, she and Emma-Leigh were close, like anyone would expect sisters of a similar age to be. At school, she'd stay with Laurel. After school, she managed to switch between spending time with Emma-Leigh and Laurel. Neither ever seemed to mind.

When Laurel went to Wammy's, Valkyrie spent a lot more time with her sister. And all was good.

When Laurel was sent home, Valkyrie went back to switching between her sister and her friend. But Laurel was different. Laurel was gloomy, miserable, and completely out of character.

With a kind, caring smile, Emma-Leigh had said "Got to Laurel. She's upset about something. I'm fine, and she's not. Go on."

So Valkyrie had stayed with Laurel, and Laurel slowly returned to her old, cheerful, level-headed self. Apparently. But not quite.

"What the fuck?!" Emma-Leigh didn't normally swear, but then again, this wasn't quite a normal situation.

Laurel stood, feet apart, shoulders rolled back, chin up, small sneer; the picture of confidence. Valkyrie stood next to her, arms wrapped around herself, eyes wide and darting, jaw trembling. Laurel's arm was stretched out, something silver gripped in her long hand.

She raised her other hand, and pressed a slim, typist's finger to her chapped lips, "sh…" she tapped the silver object against Valkyrie's temple and a small whine of fear escaped Valkyrie's throat.

*line*

The walk to the park had been quiet. Seven in the evening on a Monday night… the children had gone home, the teenagers were shopping for their drugs and alcohol, and the adults were either on their way home from work, or sat in front of their T.V. Anyone glancing out of their window would have seen three normal girls walking side by side. One in in a Trilby hat, one in walking boots and a trench-coat far too big for her, and the smallest with her hair flung forwards to hide her face. But if they'd looked closer, they'd have seen the tension, the fear riddling through the bodies of the smaller girl and Trilby, they'd have seen the sneer, the maniacal glint in the eye of the trench-coated girl. They'd have seen that these three girls were not exactly normal. Not quite.

*line*

"Climb."

Emma-Leigh gazed up at the tree. The only time Emma-Leigh and Laurel had been left alone together, Emma-Leigh had climbed the laurel tree, as Laurel had written something in a little, black, leather-bound notebook. She'd scribbled quickly, like she knew exactly what she'd wanted to write.

This tree was the tree that everyone climbed. This tree was the tree that was haunted; this tree was the hanging tree. With thick, sturdy branches, and the leaves and bark worn away, it was easy to clamber over the branches to the noose.

The noose has swung in the tree for as long as the three not-quite-normal girls can remember. A long thick fabric, like something for a cheap, sturdy belt, writhes in the breeze. It was once white, but has turned a disgusting green with age. Lines have been clawed into the thin jacket of mould during flashbacks and regret; the last few agonizing minutes of life. You'd think that the council would at least cut the noose away. They've said, after every suicide; "we're going to cut that tree down. It's on the top of the agenda. We'll cut it down." But like any authoritarian, they found something more important.

The world seemed to fall silent as Emma-Leigh climbed. Not a car passed, not a bird chirped, not a breeze blew. It was as if everyone was holding their breath with Valkyrie, watching as her sister climbed higher, higher, higher. Not to the top. Not quite.

And as the laws of physics tells us; what goes up must come down.

Contrary to the usual metaphor, no birds took flight as Emma-Leigh's body fell still. Instead, a thick pair of arms wrapped around Valkyrie's bony shoulders, the gun gone from the arm's hands, and held her close. "It'll be 'rate, Valky. It'll all be rate."

But for 'Valky', it wasn't 'rate'. Her sister just died, 'rate' in front of her. No, it would never be alright.

"Get away from me!" Valkyrie screamed, shoving as hard as she could.

Despite her chunkiness, Laurel wasn't exactly strong. Valkyrie broke from the flesh-and-bone barrier, and stumbled to the floor. Her frightened, broken eyes switched from Emma-Leigh to Laurel and back to Emma-Leigh again.

Valkyrie whimpered as she slowly backed away from Laurel, towards the laurel tree, towards her sister's body.

"It'll be 'rate," Laurel repeated. But there was no comfort in her words, false or otherwise. It was threat, not a condolence. "D'you wanna follow her?"

Valkyrie simply growled between her sobs.

"D'you think she wants you to follow her?"

Valkyrie didn't answer. The cogs were turning, turning, turning, grinding, grinding, grinding, breaking, breaking, breaking.

She barely reacted at Laurel stood over her; there was too much on her mind already. She barely reacted as Laurel took out her Glock17.

Instead of pointing the gun and pulling the trigger, Laurel turned the gun around, and raised it like a club. Her arm swung, and the handle connected sharply with the side of her epileptic friend's head.

*line*

L, Fred and Adaven feel nothing as they watch Laurel's life fade. She had felt nothing when she watched their lives fade. It's as if all four outcasts have become empty shells, mockeries of humans, toughened by stereotypes and snide comments.

As she slumps to the floor, she reaches out, reaches for a small, black, leather-bound notebook. With weakening arms, she throws it open and holds it up to the shadows in the corner. Holly, Talisa, Bibiana and Tarragon simply sneer and leave. Freckles and Lloyd share an unreadable look, and follow them. Stephanie and Kadet stare emptily, then they too are gone.

L, Fred and Adaven read the paper with blank expressions. It doesn't take long; the pages are filled with the same two words. The same two words that Laurel had wrote on L's arm two years ago. The same two words that Laurel has carved into her arm. The two words that have followed Laurel through her life. The two words that killed them all, from Emma-Leigh to Laurel.

The same two words. Over, and over, and over again.

And just outside Bleakmoor, two birds take flight.

**A/N:**

**I still don't own Death Note, the songs, Bleakmoor or Glock17.**

**Next chapter is the last!**

**-Laurel Silver**


	18. Not quite

**This is the end; the last chapter. I don't own anything, and make no money from this story.**

**Thanks for the reads, the reviews, etc. **

**See you, cockers!**

**-Laurel Silver**

Angel worked hard to become the next L, before the stress built up and he took his own life. He believed he wasn't good enough to be L.

Beyond was lost without Angel. The duo were practically conjoined at the hip. He'd been surrounded by death, but when death appeared suddenly, he couldn't handle it.

Lawliet almost defeated Kira single-handedly.

Matt was loyal to Mello. Because without Mello, Matt would have been completely alone.

Mello knew that 'only he could do it'. He had to die, so that Near could get the evidence he needed against Light Yagami. And in the end, the Wammy's boys won, 'all thanks to Mello.'

Near never lost a case in his life. He doesn't count his death as failing; Laurel Silver was still caught, still found guilty.

The Wammy's boys are at peace now. They're relaxing in heaven, with Watari and Roger looking after their genii sons. No more cases, no more murderers.

It's like they're children again. The boys prank other heaven-dwellers, run around, laugh at nothing, just like they did before the rankings. Lawliet simply watches them. He's never cared for games.

Sometimes, other children join them in their funny little games. A boy called Fred like to play dramatic games, like Charades, or to role-play as characters from television shows and films. He'll play with Matt and a girl called L, creating epic Pokémon battles. A girl called Adaven sits to the side, drawing portraits that Linda would be envious of. A boyish girl called Stephanie sometimes sits with Lawliet, and shares her seemingly endless supply of sweets with him.

They get funny looks from others. But none of the others ever say anything.

Two girls sit together. One is pretty, and petite. The other is skinny and pale. No stranger would ever think that they're sisters.

"And what happened to Laurel?" you ask. I'm right here, you fucking idiots! Who'd you think was telling the story, Hitler?

I'm right here, in the corner of the heaven, held prisoner by chains of my own past. Who knew Jesus read Charles Dickens? Well, anyway, murder is a pretty hefty chain. And I've got fifteen of the fuckers.

I'm lonely. They don't come anywhere near me. Why would they? I killed them. I don't deserve their forgiveness. I never deserved anything, because I was never quite good enough, was I? I wasn't quite good enough for heaven, I wasn't quite bad enough for hell, so I've been given this weird alternative.

Rub your eyes, reader, 'cause I'm about to tell you the moral of my life story. Don't worry; it's not very long. But it is… strange. Food for thought, so you'd better think about it.

The moral of my life is the very thing that killed me, and the others. I wrote the moral of my life on L's arm. I wrote it in my little, black, leather-bound notebook, again and again, not just in Bleakmoor, but right back when Emma-Leigh was alive. I wrote those two words, again and again, to forever burn them into my mind. Then, I carved them into my arm. Two words, that shaped the entirety of my pathetic excuse for a life.

_"Not quite."_


	19. Epilogue Good enough

Linda walks alone down the too-familiar hallway.

After re-designing the memorial, L has been given a separate plaque to his six successors. First comes A, then B.B, then Near.

Near's photograph is plain; the one he used for his passport. His face is blank, his silvery hair is pushed back, and his eyes are empty and devoid of any emotion. His drawing is much different however. In the sketch, he is hunched over a jigsaw puzzle, leg drawn up to his chest, wrinkles of concentration lining his young face; he's clearly deep in thought. The image holds no colour, and the drawing itself is drawn in pale grey, so oft that, unless you squint, the drawing looks like an empty piece of paper.

Near  
Nate River  
Loved and hated  
The boy who brought down God  
With his little toy soldiers

Some of you may have noticed; **six** successors? Angel, Beyond, Near, Mello, Matt... that's only five.

You forgot Laurel, didn't you, you fuckers?

Laurel's drawing is a sketch that Adaven scrawled in a note pad on eventless Science lesson. It depicts Laurel, her arms folded and rested on the table, her flabby chin hovering inches above her crossed wrists. She gazes off to the right, seemingly unamused. Adaven hasn't bothered to draw her scabby facial blemishes; just a small mark to sybolise the scar on her left cheekbone. Nor has Adaven bothered to add any detail to her uniform, and any intricacies have been cleverly removed from the drawing; her right wrist is folded over the left to hide her watch, and her mouth is closed to hide her braces.

Her photograph, however, doesn't cut any corners, despite it' age. She appears to be at the park, on the swing, a forced smile splitting her chubby face in half. Her thick hair is messy, and her dull white shirt is far too large for her. Everything familiar about her is there: the braces in her mouth, the watch on her wrist, the ankh around her neck.

It's saddening to think that everything associated with her is silver. To some, anyway.

Behind the swing, another girl is stood. Her face is hidden by her hair, as if the pretty, petite girl is trying to hide. Despite how close she stands to Laurel, as if the photographer is trying to get a picture of them together, the two girls seem to dislike each other. You guessed it; the pretty girl is Emma-Leigh, and the photographer is probably Valkyrie. Right back before Laurel's first murder.

Oak Platinum  
Laurel Silver  
Never took orders  
Never good enough  
Not quite

And there they are. Angel, Beyond, Near, Matt, Mello and Laurel. On that wall, there are no rankings. No stress. No competition. It makes no difference whether they're a murderer, Mafioso or a detective. On that wall, they're all there, all child prodigies in their own respects, all dead and gone.

In the end, they all got the recognition they wanted. They got special treatment, a special memorial. A 'well-done', even if it's a little too late. They deserve the special treatment, after the stress, the loss, the madness.

There, on the wall, all six of them are good enough.


End file.
